


Verse & Volley, Book Two

by boycoffin



Series: Verse & Volley Triptych [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Banter, Choose Your Own Inquisitor, Choose Your Own Quest Choices (except for a few), Developing Relationship, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Dorian Pavus: Freelance Sex Therapist, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Drinking & Talking, Erotic Poetry, Explicit Language, Fables - Freeform, Folk Songs - Freeform, Gender-Neutral Hawke, Gender-Neutral Inquisitor, Identity Porn, Implied Unrequited Varric/Hawke, Letters, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, POV First Person, POV Varric Tethras, Poetry, Romance, Shy Cullen, Slow Burn, Storytelling, Thedosian Culture, Varric Tethras' Nicknames, Wicked Grace, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 19:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15008276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: The second installment of Varric Tethras' tell-all romantic memoir, packed to the brim with...Angst! Assassins! Hearts that yearn! Intrigue! Eroticism!(that doesn't tell the reader anything useful, who writes these damn blurbs?)Moping! Miscommunication! Matchmaking!Jump-rope rhymes!'Brought together by a twist of fate, two people as unlike one another as could be found, tragically sundered by misconception, both aching to be reunited despite it all? I would read that.' -Cassandra Pentaghast





	1. The Wall, The Assassin, and The Biscuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I think the amount of what I know about the way to a man's heart may surprise you,' said Spike crisply.  
> 'That so, huh? What have the tavern girls been telling you?' A thought rolled in. 'Maker, what's _Dorian_ been telling you?'

Let me tell you a story.

Once there was an idealistic boy from a kind family, who loved Andraste and wanted to help. He wanted to help so much, and he loved so hard, that they gave him a sword and a little cup to drink from. This was a mistake.

A little farther north, there was a sentimental boy from a scheming family, who loved make-believe and wanted to make friends. He pretended so much, and he wanted so badly, that—

This was a mistake.

* * *

Here's what Cullen said when he hadn't known:

_I had questioned myself into a deep pit, the sides too steep to climb, and your words floated down to me like a gilded ladder, leading me to solid ground once more._

Here's what I said when I prayed he _had_ known:

_You needn't fear the truth._

Here's what he said before it ever happened:

_We're afraid, we fight with each other and make mistakes. We get hurt._

But here's how it went:

Cold, cold like dodging a blow and stepping into the path of Iron Lady's staff by mistake, consuming a pain meant for someone else. Shaking by the fire back at camp for hours, under all the blankets but nothing was enough, _fuck_ , how can we handle lyrium if we can't even handle one spell to the chest? But we can't really handle lyrium, can we? No one can.

_In my weakness, I..._

_No matter._

And here's what I did:

I sat on the edge of the tumbled-down wall that led to nowhere anymore, because that's where I felt like I was going. I sat there for a long time, until it started to get on towards sunset, and upon reflection I decided to sit some more.

Eventually, I noticed someone clamber down the mess of rocks and perch beside me.

'This is a rotten place to sit,' said Spike. 'Hasn't your bottom gone all dead yet?'

'Nah,' I said. 'Only my insides.'

'I'm _inclined_ to believe that you've been at the tavern,' she said, over-enunciating like someone who'd been, herself, 'but Heir says a young girl should learn how to smell a man in any season, and I don't think you've been having a drink at all, _have_ you, Mister Tethras.'

It wasn't a question.

'So you met Heir, huh?' I'd been hoping she wouldn't. 'What do you mean, "smell a man in any season"...?'

'You do not seek to know,' said Spike, who (just a reminder) was small and wiry and had squinty little judgmental eyes like a nug. Then again, that could describe a lot of assassins. 'Therefore you will not.'

'Have it your way.'

She sat down properly and leaned against me a bit, in that heavy way a child does when they're tired but they feel too grown-up to go to bed that early. 'You look like crying, but like crying isn't enough.'

'Bit personal, Spike. Been taking lessons from the Kid, too?'

'No. Dorian sometimes looks like crying, and that's when he says it's time to find one of the naughty books in the library and laugh at how silly they sound. Shall I find you one? Lady Seeker has one, I've seen her with it.'

I snorted. 'Already know how that one goes, and it's sillier than most.'

'Nevertheless,' said Spike, 'it may help you out. It's got proud bosoms and heaving cockstands in it and everything.'

I peered at her in the dusk. It had gotten later than I thought it was. 'And how do you know?'

She scowled down at her own bare feet for a long moment, then said in a supercilious voice, 'I _lied_. I could read perfectly well from the _start_ , you know. The sisters at the Chantry taught all of us who were there.'

'Do me a favor, would you, Spike?'

She tutted. 'I'm not just going to _stop becoming an assassin_ , Mister Tethras, so don't try to trick me into that with your Wily Ways and Trickery.'

'No, that's...' I was thinking just then, you know what, I hadn't known that I _had_ any Wily Ways. Trickery, absolutely. I had Trickery coming out of my ears. But at the moment no revelation about my personal lack of integrity was much of a surprise. 'I mean, that's not _great_ , but... just don't lie, all right?'

Spike gave me a long look. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Don't lie to people you care about. In fact, maybe don't lie at all, because it's a slippery slope. Remember that time Kipper dangled you off the scaffold?'

'I got him back for it,' she pointed out coolly. 'I reinstated the proper balance of power.'

'Yeah, I know.' I made a mental note to ask Ruffles if there was a way to keep my kids away from acerbically-informative assassins. Maybe put up some kind of wicket gate in the doorways with a fiddly lock on them they couldn't pick. Then I remembered that any of my kids worth their salt would probably just run at it like tiny battering rams, locks be damned, and emerge on the other side triumphant and covered in splinters, which they would then stick into their friends. 'But remember hanging in the air,' I went on, 'imagining how much it would hurt if you fell down? That's what it feels like when you lie all the time, and I don't want you to have to feel that way.'

Spike considered this. 'You sound like someone's _father_ , you know that, right.' She said _faaather_ like it was something only unfortunate people ended up with, and she might be onto something there.

'That's just because I'm old,' I said. 'I don't think I'll be anybody's father.'

'Well, no wonder. You haven't got a wife,' said Spike matter-of-factly.

I sometimes forgot that she was raised in a tiny chapel in the foothills somewhere. Despite a proliferation of out-of-wedlock Chantry orphans, they were still taught that if somebody was your father, that meant your mother must be his spouse, and vise-versa.

What a strange world we lived in.

'Haven't got a _husband_ , neither,' she pointed out.

'Uh, no. No, Spike, I don't have one of those.'

She started flipping the folding knife Dorian had given her, open and closed, _shing, shing._ 'Dorian says you're pining. I'm not entirely clear on what that word means.'

'Well, kiddo, pining is like when you're hungry, only you're hungry for a specific thing.'

'Blackb'y jam biscuits that you push with your thumb,' Spike said promptly.

'All right. So let's say you really want one of those.'

'I _do_ ,' she agreed. 'I want seventy or perhaps even one hundred.'

I chuckled a little. 'Yeah, but where are you going to get seventy biscuits? I don't even think I have _one_. Have you got any?'

 _Shing._ 'No.' _Shing, shing._

'Yeah, me neither. Pining is the feeling where you really want something, and you think it would feel just _great_ if you had it. And sometimes you don't even know why it popped into your head in the first place. One day you just woke up and all you could think about was how nice it would be to have—'

'Blackb'y jam biscuits that you push with your thumb.'

'The very same. And you keep thinking about them all day long, even when you thought you were thinking about something else instead. That's pining.'

'But when I want a biscuit, I don't sit on a broken wall until my whole botty goes numb and _big sigh_ about it.'

'Ah,' I said with a shake of my finger, 'but here's where we get to Pining, Book Two: The Revenge. Let's say somebody said, Hey Spike! You know those biscuits you like and can't stop thinking about? Maybe you can have some.'

'I'd say, what's the catch.'

'And that's what we call _cynicism_ ,' I said. 'You'll grow into it when you're older.'

Spike was looking up at the stars coming out, still flipping her knife.

'So, you've been told about the biscuits,' I went on. 'They've been practically dangled in front of you. But maybe not on purpose, you know? Maybe that person was just thinking about some imaginary future, for a second. Who knows? Either way, your hunger for the biscuits has multiplied, because the more you think about them, the sweeter and more tender you imagine they could be.'

'Right.'

'But then you don't get the biscuit,' I said.

 _Shing, shing, clink._ 'Well, why _not_?'

I raised my hands in surrender. 'You just don't, okay! That's why we have cynicism.'

'But I didn't want _cynicism_ , I wanted blackb'y jam biscuits that you push with your thumb!'

'Arrgh!' I said, melodramatically shaking a fist at the sky.

'RRRRRRAAA _AAAAAGGGGHH!'_ she screamed, the sound breaking halfway into that unholy shriek only achieved by those who haven't yet lost all their milk teeth. Down below in the end of the yard, the ornery chicken made a startled _hark!_ and went off to bother Blackwall.

We looked up at the unmerciful stars.

'You see those six ones up there?' I said.

'Dorian says that's the Maker's Ink Bottle.'

'You've already heard this one, huh.'

'Ye-es, stole your thunder a bit.' She chewed a strand of her own hair for a moment, which was gross. Why do kids do that? 'Sorry.'

''S fine, kiddo.'

The stars looked unmercifully down at us.

'Do you _love_ him?' said Spike, sounding put-upon.

'Who, Dorian?'

She tossed her head like an Orlesian stage heroine, a hand at her throat all splayed out. ' _Everyone_ loves Dorian.'

'That's... eerily accurate, you should save that one for parties.'

'I _meant_ ,' said Spike emphatically, 'your _biscuit_.'

'I don't have a biscuit,' I said.

'I _know_ you haven't got a biscuit!' Spike threw her hands up in a passionate gesture. 'That's what we've been _talking_ about for a thousand billion years!' _Shingshingshingshing—_ _'_ Just tell me if you love your biscuit or not, damn it!'

'Don't say "damn it"!'

'But _do_ you?'

'No!' I said automatically, then, 'Yes! _I don't know!_ Shit, you're _nine_ , what do you know about it!'

'I _think_ the amount of what I know about the way to a man's heart may surprise you,' said Spike crisply.

'That so, huh? What have the tavern girls been telling you?' A thought rolled in. 'Maker, what's _Dorian_ been telling you?'

'The best way to a man's heart is through the armpit,' she said. 'Otherwise you've got to contend with the rib cage, and you'll be there all day.'

'I need to give you tiny people more assignments, you clearly have too much time on your hands.' I saw a vision of the future, and lo: there were trash fires.

'Well, I don't think the Maker _has_ an ink bottle,' she said, wrenching the conversation back several lines of important dialogue as if they hadn't happened. 'The Maker makes things. It's right in the name. Like boot polish is for to polish your boots. But you can make something and then forget about it because it's gone, can't you?' She tried to twirl her knife over her fingers like Krem did with coins, and it fell, and I caught it before it bounced off her bare foot. Spike huffed grumpily, but went on. 'I don't remember _every_ pillow bread I've made for the Day of Andraste In Repose. I would have to think about it and count all those days, and I _won't_ because sums is for Niblet to do because he likes to.'

'Uh huh,' I said, not really seeing where she was going with this. I closed the knife and set it on my other side.

'But I remember that I wrote "BALLS" quite large on the big canvas, because _I wrote it_ and it pleased me and it made the person I like smile. I'm _proud_ of it.'

'You did execute it with a confident hand,' I said, and I supposed that was how she'd continue to conduct her career going forward.

'So if the Maker wrote things instead of making things, _first of all_ ,' Spike ticked off on her fingers, 'he'd be called the Writer, and _secondly of all_ , he wouldn't have left us all to chant at each other forever until we all say Hello, Maker, This is People, Everyone's Agreed That We're To Stop Sinning, Thank You For Waiting On Us Because We Are Quite Stupid, Come Back Now Please. All right?'

Made more sense than some sermons I'd heard. 'All right,' I agreed.

' _You_ don't make things,' she said.

'Not really my bag, no.'

'You write things instead.'

I made a so-so hand gesture. 'Writing goes away if people forget about it, too. It's not always a book, you know.' I thought about my still-mostly-unexplored spooky little collection in my office. 'And sometimes even very important books get forgotten about.'

Spike made a noise of frustration, giving me a small shove. It was past her bedtime by now; she was clearly reaching Critical Philosophy and might combust at any time. 'But ideas don't get eaten like pillow breads! You give them to somebody and they _have_ it and then they still _have_ it.'

'Tell me, o wise one: How does this come back to biscuits? We've entered an entirely different realm of baked goods.'

Spike cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered to the Frostbacks, 'MISTER TETHRAS IS A BIG STUPID TIT AND HE TOOK MY KNIFE!'

I handed it back. 'Just don't lose any fingers or toes, please.'

'HE HAS RETURNED THE KNIFE,' she added, probably startling chickens as far as the Anderfels. 'BUT I DO NOT TAKE BACK MY OTHER REMARKS.' She leaned on me again. 'Just supposing you were to say, "fuck this batch of biscuits, they've gone wrong."'

'Please don't say "fuck".’

'Heir says a girl may say as she pleases,' Spike scolded me, mad with linguistic power and reluctant sleepiness. 'Now, you say to yourself, "damn these horrible biscuits, they art fucked! I must make new, better biscuits that are good, instead. I won't burn them this time, either, and I won't hate them anymore or think I am a Biscuit Ruining Bad Person."'

Her voice was getting smaller, and I patted her hair a bit.

'And so you do it better and you don't feel like dangling off a scaffold anymore.' She yawned hugely. 'And then you write it down, so you remember how you did it prop'ly, so you can show it to other people and say, See? Look at my beautiful biscuit, I love him.'

'Is that right?' I said softly.

'Yes,' she said. 'Like how Chopper put the cake in the paper for everyone and they were happy. It's dark,' she noted.

'That's because your eyes are closed.'

And there wasn't any talking for some time.

Solas made an appearance, picking his way down the collapsed slope of the wall with the ease of someone who crawled through abandoned buildings as a side gig, just for kicks.

'Master Tethras,' he said.

'Evening, Chuckles. I seem to have a shoulder limpet.'

'I'll make sure she gets inside,' he said. 'She's been sleeping in the library.'

'Don't these kids have beds?' I asked. Shit, I'd never _thought_ to ask.

'She does, but she won't sleep in it,' said Solas, bending down to pick her up. She sort of oozed bonelessly into shape to be carried. Solas paused, his hand open, for me to surrender her folding knife. I dropped it into his palm and he tucked it away somewhere. 'There's a small triptych cabinet of Andraste and the Betrayer in their dormitory, and she says it reminds her of the Chantry home.'

'Ah,' I said.

'She prefers to sleep in Dorian's chair,' he added, then smiled. 'She's grown into herself, since someone started listening to her.' He did that narrow-eyed Solas-y thing he does where I feel like he's looking through the back of my head. 'Have you been listening properly?'

I took a long breath. 'Think so, Chuckles. Give me time.'

'That, I cannot give you.' He turned and hopped lightly down from stone to stone, landing on the grass with his passenger still undisturbed. 'Goodnight, Varric.'


	2. The Seventh Hell, The Water, and The Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You've been avoiding somebody at Skyhold,' Bull pointed out. 'Every time some errand needs to be done, you're the first in the saddle. And you _hate_ saddles.'  
>  'I curate an extensive collection of personal distastes,' I said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cole's little poetry reference in this chapter is from _the second coming_ by w.b. yeats, which i highly recommend

Let me tell you a story.

Once there was a great and powerful empire. Its gods were worshiped in every city in the known world, but nevertheless there were those among the priesthood who were dissatisfied with their scope. They met together in secret to form a plan, these men who saw what staggering power they possessed and deemed it insufficient. Each had his own goal:

One desired that his accomplishments be lauded throughout the world.

Another wanted the ability to command the gods to do his will, to usher forth great feats and miracles.

Another longed for wealth to rival that of the richest kings.

One had no love for the world or his people any longer, and wished to abandon them utterly to nothingness.

Another wanted all his fellows' power for himself.

Another despised those who would not bow to his god, and wished to have vengeance upon them.

And the last of them told his companions that his reasons were, simply, his own.

The priests labored for years to forge the magics they required, and by and by they laid siege to the empire of the gods. But the gods, in their wisdom, knew these men would come, would make demands and disrupt the way of things. So the gods hid themselves from their sight, and watched to see what might happen.

The proud priest felt shame at being ignored, and shouted at the gods to heed his great works.

The selfish priest felt contempt for his fellows, and blamed them for ruining his plans and robbing him of glory.

The greedy priest tried to steal the wealth of the gods from that place, so that he might luxuriate on earth.

The priest sunk in apathy felt a pang of despair at having been abandoned, himself, and it was a terrible feeling.

The envious priest looked to his fellows with suspicion, believing they had tricked him and were keeping all the power and knowledge to themselves.

The wrathful priest raged against the gods, seeking to destroy all they had made.

And the lying priest said he had known it all along, that there _were_ no gods, that the priests had all been fools—neglecting to include _himself_ in their foolishness, for, after all, he had hidden his true reason from them from the start, and considered himself superior to them. For if one has the skill to deny the truth to others, he must surely know how to ignore the truth within.

The gods saw all of this and were disappointed. What were these men, these disdainful priests who saw fit to lead and instruct the people in a mockery of worship, wishing not to elevate their gods but to reap praise and worship themselves? They cared only for personal glory! And so the gods cast each of the priests into a prison, a pit too deep for any man to escape, that they might be alone with their folly and perhaps begin to understand. To these sinners there was granted each his own abyss, that which we call hell:

One for the proud, one for the selfish, one for the greedy, one for the apathetic, one for the envious, one for the wrathful. But to the liar they gave the most painful of torments: he was returned to his home.

He told all who would listen what had happened, but none believed him, because he was a liar. Thus the seventh hell was what man had wrought for himself.

* * *

 _I didn't want you when we met_  
_Or when we parted ways,_  
_I didn't want you fortnight last_  
_Or even yesterday;_  
_I didn't want to cross a bridge_  
_With a toll I couldn't pay._

 _I didn't want to recognize_  
_That old familiar pain,_  
_I swore I didn't want you, but_  
_The mind and heart are twain;_  
_I hadn't thought of you at all,_  
_But there you were again._

 _I hadn't thought of you at all,_  
_You never crossed my mind,_  
_A hint of yearning in my heart_  
_No search could ever find;_  
_I'm very good at telling lies_  
_Until I'm left behind._

 _I didn't want you when we met_  
_Or when we parted ways,_  
_I didn't want you fortnight last_  
_Or even yesterday;_  
_But damn it all, I want you now_  
_And cannot turn away._

* * *

The first time I saw Curly after our fight, he was leaving Dorian's room, looking furtive but somehow relieved.

I waited until he'd gone down the stairs, then I banged on Dorian's door like a siege engine until it was wrenched open in alarm and annoyance.

'Good gods, man, what's all this racket?'

I glared at him. 'What was Curly doing here?'

He gave me his own glare. 'I hardly see why that's something I ought to _tell_ you, considering recent events.'

I realized I sounded like a demanding jerk, and I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Right. Sorry.'

Dorian cocked his head to one side. 'Are you _jealous_? Actually jealous of me, for something other than my fantastic good looks and dress sense? My word!'

'I'm not jealous!' I protested. But he wasn't having that.

' _Aren't_ you?'

'No! Yes. I don't know!' I threw my hands up in surrender. 'I'm a flaming wreck this week, all right? Give me a break!'

Dorian crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, resting one ankle over the other. 'Hmm, yes, I see. Typically you're just a regular wreck—the "flaming" is a recent development.'

'Oh, that was _cheap_.'

He shrugged. 'Everyone loves a bargain. But honestly, Varric, it's not as if you've got to defend his maidenly virtue. The commander is a grown man.'

'Yeah, so are you. I can put two and two together, Sparkler.' And I figured—in my surly wretchedness that made my heart feel like it had been through all the trials I'd subject Arch's letters to before delivering them, I mean, being trodden on by goats and kicked across the hearth and all that—that that's precisely what they _had_ been doing.

Dorian could see it in my expression, and thumped the door frame irritably, adding a passionate Northern gesture for good measure, shaking his hand at me with the tips of his fingers together. _'Really_ , Varric? Despite that ability—a term I'm using very loosely and with the _utmost_ skepticism—you seem to not be drawing the same conclusions as the rest of us!'

We stood there staring at each other with our eyes narrowed for a long moment, until both of us had to blink and the tension dissipated a little.

'We've been... playing games,' said Dorian.

I rolled my eyes. 'Aren't you always?'

He stood back from the door, arms wide as if to frame the scene of the room beyond: the little table at the foot of his bed had a chess set on it, conquered pieces clustered at either side, the winning move still on display. ' _Board games._ Get a hold of yourself, man! We play chess and talk about things.'

I did get a hold of myself. 'Don't you typically play out in the garden?'

'There have been items on the agenda he wishes to discuss privately,' said Dorian. 'One does not chit-chat about matters of the heart where anyone could walk by and overhear. Would _you_ bare your deepest fears and finest wishes with Mother Giselle and an Antivan Chorus of assorted Chantry siblings breathing down your neck?'

He had a point, and I acknowledged it. He responded with a sarcastic little bow.

'Naturally,' Dorian went on, 'I invited him to my quarters. As a bonus, my personal chess set has all of the original pieces and not Blackwall's whittled replacements that Sera's drawn rude faces on.' He paused for breath, looked up to the heavens (or rather, the ceiling) as if praying for strength, and added, 'We weren't _fucking_.'

I winced. 'I didn't think you were!'

'Oh?' He crossed his arms again, returning to the default position of exasperated disbelief. 'You certainly thrashed my door like you'd just caught him crooked-walking back to his office with a hazy smile and come on his tunic, you reactionary little man.'

'I...' realized he was right. 'Shit, I'm an idiot.'

'No need to apologize to _me_ ,' he said loftily, but I could tell I was forgiven, because he immediately shifted into Helpful Sparkler mode. 'He's upset, of course. Anyone would be. Someone he had strong feelings for, and whom he believed to have strong feelings for him, only turned out to have been lying to him the _whole bloody time_ —'

'I wasn't lying about my feelings!' For once.

'No, but you lied about everything _else_ , and it acted as a sort of cushion so the truth in the middle didn't matter anymore. Like a sad little dumpling of deception.'

'You don't have to rub it in.'

'I _do_ have to rub it in, because it had to have been really bad for Cullen to seek _me_ out as a shoulder to—well, not to cry on. Perhaps sigh stoically at. Not that a shoulder in particular is required for such things, but you can't blame him for choosing a shapely one.' Dorian waved a dismissive hand and re-crossed his arms the other way. 'Regardless, the man's just as much of a flaming wreck as you are, but here's the thing, Varric, he hasn't got a whole load of chums to run round the countryside with, killing highwaymen and saving wholesome rustics from demonic infestation and all sorts of comforting little activities about the home counties. What he's got is a big desk and a lot of subordinates who count on him to keep his head on straight. And as any wise man will tell you, the solution to getting through that sort of thing is a large quantity of strong drink, but barring that, consult Dorian.'

I crossed my arms, too, because it was that kind of conversation, and leaned against the wall opposite the doorway. 'Really. And what kind of advice could you possibly give him?'

Sparkler gave me an acid look. 'Oh, little old me? Sent down from school more times than I wish to count for fighting with boys I liked, shamed and derided for being "sensitive" until I built up a hard little fortress for my heart to live in, rejected by my own people because my interest in male lovers goes beyond mere bedsport and, Maker forbid, actually has _emotions_ attached? I have no _idea_ what kind of advice I could give someone about love and disappointment.'

I scrubbed both hands down my face, pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. 'I keep putting my foot in my mouth today, huh?'

'Without even removing your boots first,' Dorian agreed. 'Listen, Varric, as a friend... give him time. Let him be, for now. He doesn't _hate_ you—'

'Doubtful.'

'—he simply wishes that this hadn't happened. Give him the opportunity to make peace with how things are, and to mourn what they aren't. And maybe do a little of that yourself, hm?'

In that moment it hit me that I felt jealous because I wished _I_ were the person Curly came to when he needed to talk about his feelings (or lack thereof) towards me. He'd said Arch was the one person he felt free to open up to, but the second Arch was out of the picture, bam, he goes and spills his secret torment to Dorian, of all people? Why couldn't he just confront _me_? Not that I wanted another heart-wrenching conversation like the one we'd had in his office, but maybe part of the problem here was that _neither_ of us was being straightforward with the other. Not just me. On the one hand, I felt like this was all a big misunderstanding, but on the other hand (and I hadn't gotten to the point where I could admit this to myself, yet) I felt ashamed of what I'd done. But, I reasoned, at least Dorian was already in on it, already knew I'd been doing the whole alter-ego thing. So he had some insight into my side of the situation.

So _what_ if Cullen felt like he could talk to Sparkler about what happened? I could think of no person better suited to untangling the situation, or expressing just the right form of sympathy. Maybe opening up to Arch had proven to Cullen that he had the ability to open up at all, that he could turn to others in his time of need instead of burrowing deeper into the pain and attempting, futilely, to _pray_ his way out when what he needed was a damned ladder.

It was selfish for me to want to have Cullen to myself, to be the only one in his confidence. And I realized, by figuring _that_ out, that I truly did want Cullen for myself, full stop.

'Fine,' I said. 'You're right.'

'I always am. Now,' Dorian gave himself a little shake, 'on to happier matters. You know that library of yours?'

'Don't even think about it,' I said. 'I called dibs.'

'I'm only suggesting that we actually _do_ something with it, rather than letting it sit there like very ancient and vastly informative wallpaper.'

'If you have any ideas that aren't terrible, let me know.'

But I had plans to be away from my office for a long time.

* * *

 _Do you know how I know that I love you?_  
_I can't figure it out on my own._  
_I went to the four corners_  
_And asked the winds,_  
_Who ostensibly hear everything,_  
_But no dice._  
_I went to the highest peak_  
_And shouted to the heavens,_  
_Which should've been keeping tabs,_  
_But they didn't get back to me._  
_I went to the deepest ocean_  
_And dove down to the secret depths,_  
_But all I learned is not to do that_  
_Ever, ever again._  
_The so-called majesty of nature_  
_Has no answers for me,_  
_Not even in response_  
_To the juiciest bribes._  
_Maybe it doesn't know, either._  
_Maybe the answer to where I'm going_  
_Is where I've been:_  
_Sore and tired, beset by trouble,_  
_Under a perpetual sheen of grime,_  
_Following a madman with a sword_  
_Because for some damn reason_  
_I like the bastard._

* * *

I threw myself into my work, the kind that took me out in the field, surrounded by undead and gloomy chevaliers, or giants and trees bigger than anything has a right to be, or huge poisonous spiders and hyenas, or bogfishers and demons and alarmingly rickety tree-house encampments and anything, _anything_ but the walls of familiar ol' Skyhold, because within those walls was Cullen Rutherford, and for his sake if not my own I needed to be where he wasn't.

'I'm going to kill him,' I said.

'Who?' said the Iron Bull, running through a mental list of all the _hims_ we knew between us, which was a lot.

'Sparkler,' I said. '"A place to set up camp, perhaps!" Perhaps my ass. This is inhospitable even by our usual standards. Where's he gone off to? I want to hit him with a rock.'

Bull shrugged. 'Having a wash, I think. He was muttering something about sand being places where it shouldn't.'

'He's got a point. Sand doesn't really belong anywhere, it just sort of exists.' I dragged a couple of furs around my shoulders and hunched closer to the fire. 'To torment me. Why is the desert cold, again? Seems to go against the spirit of the thing. You know—big, stupid, empty place with a lot of wind and desiccated old bones, typically depicted as being unbearably hot. Nobody mentioned it's colder than Ferelden.'

'Only at night. Cools you off, doesn't it?'

I shook my head. The rest of me was shaking a bit, too. 'I hate temperatures.' Bull ladled out a mug of soup and passed it to me; I wrapped both hands around it and wished I could wrap the rest of myself around it, too, like a snake. I'm not usually a fan of leftovers from the previous night that traveled several miles in the pot with the lid on, heated up again and cooked down into an intensely salty mess, but I probably would have had a steaming cup of anything if it'd warm me up at all. 'Thanks.'

'How are you holding up?'

'Miserable, how 'bout yourself?'

He gave me a look, which I ignored in favor of taking a scalding sip of soup. 'Not the weather. You know what I mean.'

'Can't say that I do, Tiny.'

'You've been avoiding somebody at Skyhold,' Bull pointed out. 'Every time some errand needs to be done, you're the first in the saddle. And you _hate_ saddles.'

'I curate an extensive collection of personal distastes,' I said.

He kept at it. 'And it's not that you're feeling swamped by your work on the paper. Those kids listen to you now, and you seem to have a system going pretty good. Third edition coming up, eh? Everybody's excited. And you've got that weird little library that makes you go all glassy-eyed every time you walk in there. But you keep volunteering to go on these missions, despite hating horses and weather and where Dorian suggests we pitch the tents.'

'I'm sure that in Tevinter, where they're notoriously short on good sense, Sparkler is a well-regarded authority on tent-pitching,' I said, avoiding his point, 'but "dangling off the side of a cliff" tends not to be my favorite place to sleep.'

Bull stretched his arms until something popped in his elbow, and he sighed. 'You haven't been sleeping, anyway.'

We'd been tent partners for the past week, having drawn straws on the way to the Wastes. You might be asking, Varric, why does nobody have their own tent? _That_ sure seems like a narrative technique to get people to bond and have interpersonal knowledge and conversations that otherwise wouldn't occur. Wasn't the Inquisition rolling in coin? And I'll tell you why nobody has their own tents in this story: We carried a lot of shit around with us.

You think we just left the rations and gear and expensive potions and tables covered in maps out in the elements while we slept? _Please._ When you're on the road, a solid table can function as a two-man bunk. I mean, yeah, sometimes when we were separated or short-handed for whatever reason, we'd luxuriate in the extra space and box out little "rooms" by laying swords down on the rush mats that served as the tent floor, or stringing up clothes to make a wall. Iron Lady, ever practical and incredibly posh, started packing fine silk and cashmere ring-shawls to curtain off her corner of the tent from whomever else's. But having that much space was the exception rather than the rule.

And it's not like we didn't do shit that made things even more cramped. Don't get me started on how many times the Inquisitor rolled up into camp with ten crates of random shit that was "really cheap" or "found in a cave so it was free". And all the sacks of elfroot. One time in Crestwood the Inquisitor insisted on putting one of the tent hides up on the wreckage of this old shed so that the damn horses wouldn't have to stand around in the thunderstorm, getting spooked and yelling at us all night about it. Ever heard a hoofed animal freak out? An adequately frightened group of horses or deer is indistinguishable from darkspawn. We were all sleeping on top of each other so Scaly Horror and the Broken Harts didn't see the lightning over the pond and give people Blight flashbacks. I mean _literally_ on top of each other, in some cases—Buttercup decided that my stomach made a good pillow, and I'm pretty sure I saw Seeker curled up big-spoon around Blackwall and then avoiding eye contact with him for the next four days.

But, you know, extra tents are bulky, and meant taking up space on the supply cart we all would much rather fill with wine. Never let it be said that we didn't stay true to our priorities.

I flicked a suspiciously crunchy bit of my soup into the fire, where it complained noisily. 'Sitting up watching me is the Kid's job, Tiny.'

'He's been watching the boss, so I promised I'd take over,' Bull joked. 'But you really haven't been. Not your usual stiff-as-a-board, motionless dwarf sleep. You sort of toss and turn and grumble.'

'Me? Grumble? You must have mistaken me for some other asshole.'

'You also throw your arm over your face and mutter things like "you fucking idiot" under your breath.' He looked like he was trying not to smirk.

I drank some more soup to put off responding. Bull took that as a cue to keep up his end of the dialogue.

'Look, you don't have to tell me any of the gory details, but you can't pretend like I don't know something happened between you and—'

'Watch it,' I said.

'—an unnamed, gender-nonspecific individual,' Bull finished. 'Did you think nobody would be able to tell? I'm a spy, Varric. You used to light up when you'd get a letter on Skyhold paper whenever the messengers would come through, and now you don't get any.'

'Nice. Rub it in.'

'But even without that, it's obvious. I can tell when somebody's homesick, or if they made a hasty decision because they really needed to take a piss at the time, or if they got their heart broken because they did something stupid. It's all in the body language.'

'Yeah?' I said, taking a drink of wine, which was blessedly cool and sweet after burning my tongue by using scalding hot broth as a means of avoiding discussing emotions. 'Well, I wish I'd kept my body language to myself. And all other language. I wish I was one of those guys that gets mentioned and people are like, oh, him? Strong, silent type. Bit mysterious. Like a tongueless bell hung in an abandoned chapel on the side of a lonesome hill, with no one to pull the rope.'

'Uh huh,' said Bull.

'Don't expect any pithy remarks out of _that_ one,' I went on, 'you'll only set yourself up for disappointment. I'd say he's about as expressive of his personal opinions as a lump of wax, but at least with wax you can tell when you've made an impression.'

'Right,' said Bull.

'Quiet all the way down, that Varric Tethras. Like an empty well. I've known graves silenter.'

'Mm hmm,' said Bull, prodding the fire. 'Listen, I'd love to hear you talk about yourself all night, because the Vint's busy and _somebody's_ got to talk about himself in my direction for life to have any meaning—'

'Hey!' I laughed.

'—but if you got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out of it.'

I frowned at my soup. I hadn't explained to anyone other than Sparkler that I was Arch Tarstrive, so I couldn't exactly come back with a snippy riposte about how actually a generally well-received modern poet had got me into this mess, so as I say, I gave my mug a dirty look.

'You think?' I said after a while.

'There's a saying among Qunari...' Bull started, ignoring my good-natured muttering of _oh, here we go_ , 'He who thirsts must wait until the mud settles and the water is clear.'

I nodded contemplatively for a long moment, then said, 'Wait, what?'

'Wait,' said Bull.

'What's your next bit of enlightened advice, "don't pick at it"?'

'Might be worth a shot,' he said.

Conversation paused, as Blackwall had come back at the head of the hunting party, carrying most of their packs as everybody else lagged behind.

'Hey, big guy. Good haul?'

Blackwall dropped the packs by letting them fall off his shoulders without using his hands, and sort of threw himself down into a sitting position across the fire from us. 'You'll see. I'll be over here drinking this whatever-you-called-it.' He gestured with the flask Bull had offered around to us before.

'Punishment,' said Bull.

I turned back to him, not done fussing. 'So just... wait? Seriously, that's all you got?'

'Wait, and watch.'

I gave him a mock-astonished look. 'More gems of sagacity! You and Sparkler must have a subscription to the same guru.'

Bull made a frustrated noise and rolled his eyes. 'Quippy advice isn't my job. I'd suggest you go ask that Tethras guy, but apparently the well's run dry, there.'

'Ahh, wouldn't it be nice if we found a well?' said Dorian, emerging from wherever he'd gone off to past the edge of camp. He had an empty jug under one arm and was wringing out a cloth. 'Even a dry one. We could make it a game, who can toss three Venatori down into the depths without touching the sides?'

'Have a good cat bath?' I asked.

'I feel all twinkly-fresh and alive. Fun fact,' Dorian noted, 'in Minrathous they call it a whore's bath.'

'You'd know,' said Blackwall.

'Yes, because in Tevinter, even the hardest workers among us are up on their hygiene. Think well on this, my Southern friend.' He sat down, taking my bottle of wine so he could have some.

'Don't steal my booze!' I complained to Dorian. 'I already want to hit you with a rock.'

'It'll be awhile, the queue for hitting me with a rock reaches all the way to Qarinus.'

'Ahoy!' shouted the Inquisitor as the rest of the group crested the hill. 'We come bearing gifts!'

'Edible gifts for eating!' Cole added helpfully.

'Don't set your hopes too high, my dears,' Vivienne cautioned us as she joined us by the fire, Bull having hopped up to unfold the fancy scissor-chair she'd picked up during our furnishings excursion to Val Royeaux—which, let me tell you, took up valuable alcohol space but nobody was going to complain because you don't complain about Iron Lady's personal furnishings. 'This _is_ a barren wasteland, after all.'

Dorian looked cheerfully apprehensive. 'Anybody going to tell us what we'll be consuming for the next couple of days, or do you intend to keep us in suspense and have us dine blindfolded? I hear that's a fascinating experience.'

'Lizard and fennec!' said the Inquisitor, unslinging what can only be described as Many Small Dead Animals Bunched Together On A String. 'We were going to get rams, but there's some kind of giant-featherless-chickeny monsters where the rams like to hang out. Who wants to help skin these? Be warned, the darker-colored lizards have these spines on their elbows that make your hands go numb.'

'Is that why Blackwall can't operate a cork?' said Dorian, who'd been watching Blackwall's grunting efforts to open the flask of Punishment.

'I sort of like them,' said Buttercup, who was carrying a lizard that was still alive. Well, carrying wasn't exactly the word—it was tucked down the gap between her tits with its frilled head and little arms poking out straight in front of it. It blinked judgmentally round at us all and decided to have a sleep. 'You can get the stuff on purpose if you sort of take the knobbly end and twiggle it a few times.'

'Twiggle?' said Bull.

'Cross between a tweak and a wiggle, yeah? It just shoots right out, all white and sticky.'

'I bet it does,' said Dorian.

I got up, announcing that the joyful task of skinning lizards would fall to somebody else, as I'd done most of the last batch. I was too cold, and too full of salt and wine, to keep up the friendly banter that night.

Once I was piled with blankets and furs, staring at the moving shadows on the sloped roof of the blessedly uncrowded tent, listening to the group round the fire singing a working song to keep the rhythm of skinning, I let myself get back into a comfortable sulk.

 _Wait?_ Tchah! _Waiting_ wasn't going to bring Curly around to my point of view. I wasn't even sure what point of view I wanted him to agree with. Preferably the one that said Varric Is Not An Utter Bastard, but even I didn't agree with that one. Wait until the mud settles? The Iron Bull is a lot of things, but a philosopher he ain't. You know what people do if they're thirsty but the water's all cloudy and churned up with mud? They don't sit around and wait for it, they go open a bottle of something. Or they keep walking until they find different water, complaining all the way about how thirsty they are. They don't sit there and watch the dirt particles float down to the bottom. That could take hours, days even. Non-metaphorically speaking, it could take years. Was I going to sit here by this... this Fereldan _puddle_ and _wait_ , on the hopes that I could slake my thirst from it eventually? Was I even that thirsty, or had I just convinced myself I was? It would be smarter to walk around with my mouth open, waiting for it to rain or for some charitable person to decant whiskey into it. It would be a more economical use of my time to spend six hours of the day licking condensation off a window.

Because you know something? Cloudy water can clear up all it wants, but the water is still touching the mud. Just because the mud's at the bottom doesn't mean you're not getting a swig of it, parts you don't notice until they make you sick. Little swimming whiskery things that you can only see if you hold it up to the light in a very clear glass, and they get down in your guts and tear you up from the inside, and sooner or later you're doubled over on the floor wishing you'd never been born.

Granted, I kind of felt that way already, but hypothetically it could be worse. It can _always_ be worse.

* * *

All I could do was write.

That's not entirely true—I could shoot things, too, but if no bad guys or rams or whatever were currently available, that presented some problems.

So, I say again: All I could do was write.

I tried poetry, my old standby, the release valve for every pressure in my life, but the handle (so to speak) was jammed. I tried to work on my novel, and that was even worse. Have you ever told someone 'I'm perfectly fine!' while drunk, making a point of enunciating crisply and properly, stood up and taken two steps only to throw up and pass out? It was like that, only on paper. It was miserable. _I_ was miserable. All I wanted to do was write Cullen a letter.

So that's what I did.

_Curly, look, about what happened. I know I shouldn't have flirted with you under the guise of some other person, but it's not like you would have responded if I'd done it in person **myself** , right? Not that I would have even tried it. Okay, maybe I've tried it sometimes, but it always fell flat or made you grumpier. I love when you blush, though, and when you do that thing where you tangle your fingers in the hair on the back of your head and you look away and rock back on your heels. How dare you be so bashful? You're a grown man, it's unbecoming of a military commander to be so damned charming and easily embarrassed. I wish I could've seen the look on your face as you'd read some of those letters. I can safely say I would kill to see that, because I know now that you'd probably never let me see you make that sort of face ever again. Not that I've seen some of the ones I'm imagining. What do you think about, now, when you have a relaxing "nap"? Do you even let yourself, now, or are you throwing yourself as much into your work as I am? Maker, I miss you._

That one went into the fire.

_I'm sorry. I didn't know I wanted you. I swear I didn't. I thought it would be fun to tease you a bit, but mostly (I realize now) to buoy you up and show you that you mattered to someone who wasn't directly affected by your choices, even if that someone was made up. You **can** matter to people even if you're not immediately contributing to their lives in some way, Curly. You don't have to be Useful. You can just be. That's enough._

_At least it's enough for me._

_But now you probably distrust everyone all the more, me most of all. How can I undo that? How can I repair anything I've broken if you won't let me near what hurts? I haven't even seen you across a room in over a month, and I probably wouldn't have even if I'd been at Skyhold the whole time. Nearly two months since our fight. Do you know how many sleepless nights that is? How many times I've seen some little thing that reminded me of you and it felt like a punch in the gut, how many snippets of letters I've remembered fondly and then wanted to rip the thought from my head because I ruined everything, ruined you, ruined **us**?_

_Trying not to count the days. I keep expecting a letter from you, but nothing ever comes, of course. I don't even know how you are. Are you sleeping better than I've been? Are you remembering what we had? Are you camped out in your office, messengers bringing you food along with Ruffles' paperwork because you won't accept it otherwise? Are you angrily flogging training dummies in the middle of the night, imagining they're me? Are you ignoring that anything occurred? Are you pining? I'm pining. Now that I've been to a desert I understand in a visceral way the clichés that compare a feeling to dying of thirst. While I haven't actually been suffering dehydration any more than the rest of the party, and we're nowhere nearer death than we usually are, there's not a great deal of water to go around so I am well acquainted with a perpetual feeling of discomfort and need that is never entirely fulfilled. Is that what life has to offer us? Would we turn from an oasis simply because a lie pointed us there?_

_I thirst for you. It's not even a... it's not **just** a lust thing, never was. I liked your thoughts and your face and your dumb laugh first. I liked your seriousness and your earnestness and your fucking **valor**. And the more we wrote, the more of you I wanted to meet, to see, to understand, and the more of you I wanted. But here's the thing, in man there ever exists the manufacture of his own destruction, isn't that how the saying goes? Maybe I fucked up and wrote in my own script because I didn't know, myself, that I wanted you, myself, and that was... that was fucking **Archie's** way of pushing me to tell the truth._

_I made him, and I made my own destruction. I made him out of everything I thought would annoy you, and everything I hate about myself, and everything I secretly **like** about what I hate about myself, too. And now I've made my own bed, and I have to lie in it, but Maker, I wish I didn't have to lie in it alone. Lying is what got me into this mess. I don't believe that I can get myself out of it. How can you ever forgive me? I haven't earned forgiveness. I don't really know how to earn things. How am I supposed to wait? What am I supposed to do?_

_There's a thing, this narrative device where you have the general atmosphere or the weather mimic what the protagonist is experiencing inside themselves at the time. Environmental empathy, I think it's called. And while I have no empathy for any environment other than Indoors, the desert is certainly doing its stuff right now. Big, dark, empty, cold. Screaming winds, a bunch of dwarven ruins with their walls broken and their hearts strewn over the dunes. Really accurate shit. But there's always firelight on some far-off rise, something to aim for. Where is that, inside myself? You were the far-off light, but now it's just dark and I have to keep walking._

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to douse your flame._

That one, appropriately, went into the fire too.

_It was me all along, it was me! Maker, I hate this. I hate that I did this._

_It was my book somebody threw in a damn fountain._

_I don't blame them, either, a lot of that shit is barely readable. I was, what, twenty-five when I wrote most of the stuff that ended up in my first volume? Who cares what a beardless tavern rat has to say about anything? Characters let me be **worth** something. I made Arch into someone separate from me, so that I could transform my discomfort with myself into a new a better person._

_Everything about him is a part of me, a secret part. A part I lied away._

_I'm not lying now. I can't do it anymore. A little kid told me not to._

_I guess that's all I wanted to say._

_I'm going to do better this time, and I'm going to write it down so I do it properly._

Left in the dunes with sand kicked over it.

 _I didn't give it back to you because I wanted to hurt you with it._  
_I gave it back to you because too many times I've thrown something away,_  
_Run away as something important died behind me._  
_I didn't want you to feel that. So, I gave it back. Just in case._  
_And I have another copy, if the ink wears off at the folds._

Dropped off the edge of a rise.

_Cullen, dearest Cullen, shall we pretend you never knew? Shall we carry on as if all was well, continue as we had, pages upon pages pouring out what we tell none other but each other? You fell for it and I fell for you as you fell for him. Could we fall together, from here on? Pretend it away, be at peace, honesty without masks, genuine feeling sent to the right address. Oh, could we? Would you allow it? If I allowed it, you might absorb me completely. I would disappear and you would never know the liar, never know the snake I am said to be by those you trust and whose warnings you might have heeded. You would have only Arch, only the intention and the passion and the truth I folded into the creases of every page. Under your fingers I could be anyone you wanted. I wanted to be anyone you wanted, not me, because you wouldn't have wanted me._

_If I could ask the Maker for one gift, it would be to become the man I made up for you, because in him were placed all the hopes for what I could have been, had I not ended up like I did. But that would be selfish, I know that if I was given the choice I wouldn't choose for me, because I always choose myself, don't I? Not anymore. I would have that gift be given to you, instead, not for you to make a wish—you'd spend it on somebody else, you always would, wouldn't you? damn you—but to wish instead that you might have the one you wanted, separate from the crooked pen that created him. Bring Arch to Cullen's side, O Maker, breathe life into this empty costume, don't let what they had die, don't make me carry this dead weight for the rest of_

That one, I let the desert wind rip from my hands into the horizon.

* * *

**Traveling...**

**Traveling...**

**Traveling...**

Vivienne: Dorian, I've seen you doing strange things down in the courtyard recently.

Dorian: You do have an excellent vantage point for looking down on people!

Vivienne: Naturally, my dear.

Dorian: Rather wish I'd snagged it, myself.

Vivienne: Tell me, is there some reason you spend so much time tripping over ropes with Sera?

Dorian: At _my_ stage in life it's possible to acquire new skills.

* * *

Solas: I have a question about the Tal-Vashoth, Iron Bull.

Iron Bull: [makes a brief, terse noise] All right.

Solas: If one has been raised under the Qun, how does one then go on to have a family unassisted?

Iron Bull: It's not difficult. [jokingly] Sometimes, it even happens by accident.

Solas: [snippily] I meant how do they _raise children_ , there not being any tradition of this outside of the Tamassran role?

Iron Bull: People make up crap as they go along, and they learn. Even the ones who've gone savage know that a baby is primarily defenseless.

Solas: Only primarily?

Iron Bull: You'd be surprised how much damage an infant can do. But... people tend to have a connection with their own kind, you know? Even if they don't _like_ them, they care about them because that kid's a part of themselves.

Solas: That's an emotionally demanding balance, to care about your people even as you dislike them.

Iron Bull: You're not keen on other elves, yet every time we're in some temple ruin it's 'my people' this, 'our history' that.

Solas: Ah.

* * *

Dorian: Oh look, another dwarven plate. Just what I've always wanted!

Me: Don't look at me, I didn't decide to use the desert as a dish rack.

Dorian: Perhaps there was a grand celebration in a bygone age? There tend to be a lot of cups and such lying around in odd places after your average society party. [pause] Cups, and guests.

Me: So _that's_ who all these dead guys are.

* * *

Cole: He was there all along, sighing inside the scrolls, but he didn't see him.

Iron Bull: Ever notice how muddled things can get when everybody's got the same pronouns?

Cole: He has two names, too. But then again, so does he.

* * *

Iron Bull: Hey, Seeker, nice one back there with the mace!

Cassandra: It was a standard move.

Iron Bull: Sometimes a standard move is the right way to go. Too many warriors go for the fancy stuff but can't take out your basic kneecap.

Cassandra: Some believe advanced techniques to be more valuable than finesse.

Iron Bull: Nah, _real_ skill means you don't have to try positions out of a book just to keep things spicy.

Cassandra: [wryly] We're not having the same conversation anymore, are we?

* * *

Sera and Blackwall: [muttering, with the occasional giggle]

Dorian: What's going on over there?

Sera: Nothin'!

Blackwall: We're discussing your form.

Dorian: Oh, my _form_ , is it? I don't blame you, it _is_ rather impressive.

Sera: With the skipping rope, you knob.

Dorian: Ah. Perhaps... not so impressive, then.

Blackwall: I've seen more coordination from a drunken mule.

Dorian: Is that what Wardens do when there's not a Blight on? Inebriate pack animals? A fine old institution, worthy of respect.

* * *

Vivienne: You've been cleaning your weapons more regularly, Iron Bull.

Iron Bull: Yes, ma'am.

Vivienne: It's _so_ good to know that some men are capable of being taught how to wash up after battle. Or at all.

Blackwall: Oh, not this again! _I do take baths, people._

Dorian: Don't listen to them, Blackwall, you and I know the fleas are part of your rustic charm!

* * *

Cole: The falcon cannot hear the falconer, turning, turning, the darkness drops again.

Solas: If one must wear a mask, one must listen for direction.

Sera: Don't you two _ever_ give it a rest with your woo-woo cryptic rubbish?

* * *

Cassandra: Varric, how have you been feeling?

Me: I think you've had a little too much sun, if you're asking me that.

Cassandra: I have been... concerned. You seem much changed.

Me: Figured you'd like it if I changed.

Cassandra: It is not a matter of what I _like._ But if it were, I would prefer that you not be so dispirited. I know that after what happened at Adamant—

Me: I mourned, I'm grieving, blah blah. Everybody knows what happened, Seeker.

Cassandra: Only, you seemed to be on the mend somewhat, for a time. Now it's as if something else terrible has happened.

Me: Why are we even discussing this? I'm a snake, remember?

Cassandra: That was cruel of me to say. [a long pause] And even snakes have hearts.

* * *

I waited. We walked.

I wrote.

_Commander,_

_As you know, the third edition of The Herald is in the works. While the second edition didn't contain anything in need of prior assessment by someone of a military mindset, some materials we're preparing for Issue #3 are passing over the Lady Ambassador's and your desk prior to being set in type. I'm aware of the demands of your schedule, but when you have a free moment we at The Herald would appreciate you giving it the once-over._

_Regards,  
Varric_

I waited. I went down into ruins full of spiders, I fought Venatori, freed slaves, hunted legendary beasts. I was busy, but I was waiting.

And he wrote back, two pages folded and sealed with wax, so familiar and comforting it was like a warm embrace.

_Mr Tethras,_

_Thank you for forwarding the story to me. I've returned it marked in red ink where changes might be implemented for realism and appropriateness._

_Regards,  
Cmdr Cullen_

It wasn't touching. It wasn't even personal, but sweet Andraste, it was the first time I'd seen fresh words in his handwriting in weeks, and I clung to it like a lone stick of wood to float on in a churning sea. And his editorial remarks were so _him_ , so patently perfect in their blend of terseness and wry good humor, that I think I treasured them more in that moment than the idea of far-off forgiveness.

Here and there entire passages were scribbled out, nearly obliterated as if he were irritated at them, while others simply had a single, loosely-drawn line through them, or were even circled with a jaunty little doodle of a hand pointing to the margin, where the word _No_ sat all by itself. In other places he'd put something in brackets with an arrow pointing to a small, cramped, but thorough critique wherever on the page he'd found room for it. Some comments were brief— _that's not the right term,_ or _this euphemism won't make sense to someone who isn't a Marcher,_ once even a line of seven query marks and nothing else—but now and again something was underlined or boxed in, and the notation was simply _well done_ , or _nicely worded._ In a couple of places, he just put an exclamation point at the end of a phrase or passage. Once, he even put two. And on the back of the page, _Overall, not terribly executed. A few simple changes and it's fit to print._ It was the most amiable editor's note I'd ever received, and it lifted my mood more than I'd thought possible.

He was willing to admit that he didn't despise everything about me and my work, which felt like progress. It was the first I'd heard from him since our fight, and it gave me hope. Maybe things could start mending, after all. Best not to push it, but go slowly.

Maybe Sparkler and Tiny had a point.


	3. The Drop, The Mail, and The Librarians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curly hadn't minded those things, because he panned them out like dirt through a miner's screen, leaving only jewels behind. What had compelled him to do this? What had he seen that made him decide it was worth the effort?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> varric's poem about hubris is based on percy shelley's and horace smith's _ozymandias_

I knew this guy, once. Let's call him a friend of mine, though half the time he was pulling some low-down shit or other to get me into trouble and generally screw up my life. But that's the kind of friends I make, sometimes.

So this guy lived in Kirkwall, right, and he wrote poems. Some of them were really bad, like, _stupidly_ bad; others were pretty good, and appealed to people. He ended up writing a lot, and people read it, and liked some of it. But the thing was, this friend wasn't writing so people would _like_ it, he was writing so he wouldn't have to admit to feelings things in real life. He wrote about his adventures (avoiding specifics), and about bad shit happening in his life (ditto), and he wrote about people he cared about. People he loved. But those people weren't always on the same page—hell, those people didn't even know he wrote poetry. So he poured out his heart into these damn verses, putting them out there in a book for literally any literate person to consume and judge, knowing that the people he wrote about could pick one up at any bookshop and read it and think, _hey, that sounds suspiciously familiar_ , but this guy assumed that would never happen. He didn't keep the sort of company that read poetry.

And so he hadn't anticipated that one of his friends, his best friend, actually, would decide to teach another mutual friend how to read, and would decide that one of the best ways to start would be with verse. Best Friend did, in fact, pick up a particular volume at a bookshop, and used it in these casual reading lessons with this third friend. And Generally Screwing-Up didn't get wind of it until one night in the Hanged Man, where they were all sitting around drinking after a long day—Screwing-Up and Best Friend and Reading Boy and a couple of others—and Reading Boy says to Screwing-Up, 'You would not believe the tripe Best Friend has me learning out of. It's pathetic.'

And Best Friend said, 'It's not pathetic, you're just not used to poetry! It's _all_ like that, trust me.'

And Reading Boy rattled off a verse from memory, a verse about how the poet wished that this grand heroic person would notice his (the poet's) deep and aching affection for aforesaid heroic person. And Best Friend said, 'Oh, that one's not so bad, sort of classical, isn't it?'

And Reading Boy, who apparently had the stanza memorization skills of a veteran Chanter, trotted out another one he recalled, about how the poet complained so that he (the poet) would be comforted, and how he teased people and started little petty debates to keep people talking so the silence wouldn't urge him to say what he was truly thinking, and how he picked fights with a friend's lover because he couldn't be that friend's lover, himself.

'Isn't that sad?' said Reading Boy dryly. 'Can you _imagine_ hanging around with someone like that?'

Best Friend admitted that, well, if you put it that way...

This led to Reading Boy quoting off one of the erotic poems, in a terrible gloopy voice that he apparently assumed the poet must have, making one of their other friends snort ale up the back of her nose from laughing so hard. And Best Friend turned to this pal of mine and said, 'Thank the Maker _you're_ not like that, right?'

And later that night, when the rest of them had gone to their respective homes, I walked the city in the dangerous dark, because I'm Generally Screwing-Up, and I forgave them all because I liked the bastards, but I threw my first volume of poetry into a fountain.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Thanks for the edits, will do. Glad you liked the metaphor in the third paragraph. If someone as experienced in tactics as you approves of it, then so (I assume) will our soldiers in the field._

_You should know that I've informed Tarstrive that upon review of his behavior he wasn't the best fit for the Inquisition. Any poetry in The Herald from here forwards will be my own work. On that note, I've enclosed something for you to go over when you have a minute. What can I say? The unfeeling void of the desert can be inspiring on occasion._

_Thanks again for helping with the paper, the kids really appreciate it, and I get nothing but positive comments from the people at Skyhold and ones we run into various places who've got their hands on a copy._

_Best wishes,  
Varric_

_Two huge stone feet stood in the sands._   
_There were no legs, no arms, no hands,_   
_It had no torso and no head,_   
_This statue of a lord long dead._   
_Perhaps he'd worn a helm of gold_   
_And had a matching sword to hold,_   
_Ceramic armies at his back._   
_Perhaps, once, there had been a plaque:_   
_'I'm damn important, so's you know._   
_This massive statue stands to show_   
_One man's dominion over man._   
_Try to defeat me, if you can!'_   
_But plans can fail, and armor rust,_   
_So there's just feet amid the dust,_   
_Cold, amputated, and bereft—_   
_Unnerving, this is all that's left._   
_There's miles to go and dunes to trudge_   
_But I cannot begin to budge_   
_The gnawing question from my mind:_   
_What wreckage will I leave behind?_

* * *

_Varric,_

_I only have a moment to write, but run the poem, it's good._

_Cullen_

And below, the ink pressed to the folds like he'd closed it up before it had time to dry, so he couldn't take it back,

_PS. I do not regret to hear that you've let Tarstrive go. ~~He was, at times,~~_

_We have much still to do, and even an uneasy cooperation is better than none at all. I regret what passed between us last we spoke. That was unworthy of me._

Maker, I knew all about what was unworthy of him, since I was at the top of the list.

But... while 'good' wasn't the highest praise I'd received from Cullen, it was the highest I'd received from him about something he knew _I'd_ done. It brought a glow to my heart to read those words, and I read them over again at intervals on the long trip back to Skyhold from the Hissing Wastes. _It's good._

_It's good._

The way he phrased the post-script occupied my thoughts off and on for days. He regretted what passed between us! Between him and me, when we fought, or between him and the man he thought was Tarstrive? He could've said 'fired', or not said anything at all. But no, he said I'd 'let Tarstrive go'. Like I'd been clinging to him. Which, honestly, I had been. The mask I didn't want to hang up. The role I played because who would want to read poetry Varric Tethras wrote when he was troubled and struggling with writer's block? Who would want to correspond and flirt with and fall for the real person on the other side of the page? But nevertheless, I'd let him go. And Curly still carved the page with his pen, I could always read what he'd crossed out. He was, at times, _what?_ Overly personal? Grating? Presumptuous? I'd made him that way on purpose. But Cullen had liked him anyway, had seen good qualities in him beyond the prideful foppishness and that style of self-deprecation that nevertheless loops back around to patting oneself on the back. Curly hadn't minded those things, because he panned them out like dirt through a miner's screen, leaving only jewels behind. What had compelled him to do this? What had he seen that made him decide it was worth the effort?

Come to that, what had I seen in him? What happened to all my grumbling inner monologue of the previous week about how muddy water can never be clean enough again? But I knew I'd been manufacturing bitterness about him where none had really existed, because it was easier than embracing the sweetness that still lingered even after the fight: I had seen the little pearl of strength he carried, seen that he didn't need to be 'cleaned up' to be an inspiration, didn't have to be Useful to be appreciated, to be _needed._ And that had been enough.

That had always been enough.

So I would wait, I decided. I would be patient and let the mud settle, because it was my own damn fault it had been kicked up in the first place. Everybody's just mud, when you dig far enough. Even the clearest, purest stream must run along _something_. But if you move with care and respect it, you can be cleansed, your thirst can be lifted from you, and that water will be the sweetest you've ever tasted.

* * *

Most people assume it doesn't take much to differentiate between mad people and regular citizens. I mean, on the one hand you've got the sort of person who stands on a crate at the market corner and bellows dire warnings about how local government has been infiltrated by ill-intentioned salamander men, and on the other hand you have the folks who pass by and shake their heads, wondering where the poor sod's life went wrong. When applied to religious discourse, parties of the first sort tend to be of the locust-eating variety who insist upon dunking their friends and family in the river, and your second faction tends to shun the insectivorous lifestyle and don't go in for communal bathing unless they're from the North, where such bizarre quirks are considered Right and Wholesome and come with specialized plumbing.

The weirdos are easy to spot, right?

Wrong. I've known plenty of people who wandered into Dangerous Kook territory, and they seemed _fine_ , right up until the moment they definitely _weren't_. And while it's hard to tell when an individual is falling off the sanity cart, it's a lot easier to spot when a _group's_ gone rotten. At this point in my career I'd started putting together how-to guides for people who wanted to avoid cults; the damned things were popping up every dozen yards these days, and you don't learn how to spot them unless you've seen a lot or someone who _has_ takes time to steer you in the opposite direction. And it hit me one evening as I sat at my desk in the hall, people-watching while I tried to pin down a good synonym, that the main thing that separated the Inquisition from the dangerous kooks was... paperwork.

Let's examine the facts: You've got your dubiously-blessed figurehead with special powers, secret societies being cracked open and their societal secrets being revealed to a select few at the top, a handful of Chantry cassocks who defied convention to jolly along the heretics, a few score of fiercely loyal but otherwise regular followers who'd been cast out and disregarded by the rest of society, and we had a stockpile of weapons big enough to put a sword or projectile in the hand of every man, woman, and child within a ten mile radius. We were popular with nobles who liked to feel like they were privy to the mystical inner workings of the Maker's plans, and therefore our coffers were full, because nobles pay for the privilege to know things. Our organization bucked tradition, embraced society's untouchables and rejects, and had a dash of ancient elven magic and mysterious artifacts thrown in for some spice. Now pour all that into a remote mountainside compound and give it a stir.

Sounds pretty culty, doesn't it?

I mean, okay, there's the fact that we were _right_ about shit. Mostly right. That set us apart from the sort of groups that ask people to line up and walk into the sea. And yeah, yeah, I know, every cult assumes it's right.

But Maker's _balls_ , we did paperwork. No mysteries there. We kept track of who, what, where, why, how often and how much. Not a loaf of bread or a brass button unaccounted for. We occasionally got sat down by Ruffles and asked things like, 'Do you really require this many bottles of ink per fortnight, Master Tethras?' and 'Is it wise to use these materials simply to make sure everyone's armor matches, Your Worship?' And we'd be given a verbal slap on the wrist, as much as Ruffles has it in her heart to slap anybody, and went away with the impression that she was not angry, she was just _disappointed_.

The commander tried to uphold a clean desk policy, which typically meant that a lot of stacks of forms and notices ended up on the floor. Our resident Seeker had taken over a table above the armory, where she mostly scowled down at half-written letters while she scratched things out and mouthed sentences to herself before writing them down. The Inquisitor was always being asked to sign things, and not having time to actually read all that shit, tended to scrawl a half-legible scribble along the dotted line while doing something else, which meant that occasionally only half of the signature ended up on the page. Even Sister Nightingale was up to her elbows in missives and orders, though hers were usually designed to be eaten by scouts after they'd been read, or to self-destruct.

And me? I had bills, and Guild stuff, curt and unsigned notes from informants, and now The Herald had...

'Fan mail?' The Inquisitor looked down at the sacks in the corner of the press room. 'Do we have to read this?'

I shrugged. 'Can't be any worse than the stuff you get that Ruffles drops straight in the fire, right?'

'I didn't know I got any post like that.'

'Kind of the point of that procedure,' I said, opening a sack and taking out a letter. _'Dear The Herald,'_ I read out, ' _I was wondering if you might put in a picture of my boy Johnny, who is missing. Below is as good a drawing as I could have done for two royals by the man who does the notices about Wanted bandits. Thanks ever so much and Andraste bless etc, Yours sincerely, Deega Cartwright.'_

'Oh,' said the Inquisitor, taking it from me and having a look.

Uncomfortable levels of knee-jerk compassion thickened the air of the room like a fog. And as somebody from Kirkwall, when I say fog I mean a sort of airborne soup that you have to scrape off the windows with a knife. No matter all the shortcomings that have been thoroughly combed over in other writings and will likely be picked apart by historians until whenever the next End of Days rears up, one thing was certain: The Inquisitor was somebody who'd figured out, at some point along the line, how to care about people so hard it left a dent. I don't think it was ever on purpose. People who care about others _on purpose_ typically don't seem so blindsided by it.

'Well,' I said. 'That's… something.'

'We ought to print it. I mean, somebody might know where he is.'

I opened another one. _'Hoping this letter finds the Inquisition well. I'd join up if I had legs, but since I've mislaid them, here's a joke my gaffer used to tell us about a sailor with a wooden leg, hook-for-hand, and an eye patch. Thanks very much, all the best from your stumpy mate Corbin Bryce ap Dafydd of Gwaren.'_

I read out the joke.

The Inquisitor winced.

'We've _got_ to put it in.'

'Agreed,' I said.

We opened more letters, eventually sitting down on the floor with various categorized piles around us. We finished one and a half sacks before someone came looking for the Inquisitor, and I was left to my own devices. I was mentally calculating how much more time and effort it would take for the broadsheet to have a second page, when Sparkler made an appearance, two strangers in tow.

'My most esteemed colleague!' he began, which is never a good sign. 'I'd like you to meet a couple of sterling fellows.'

'What have they done?' was my immediate reply. 'How long do I need to hide them?'

'Goodness, nothing like _that_.' Dorian made a little flourishing gesture. 'Varric, these are Milton and Arthur.'

Milton and Arthur—no idea which was which—had a particular look about them that I recognized. Nervous under scrutiny, dressed slightly behind the times, a sort of crescent callus on the web of the thumb on the dominant hand, scrupulously clean. It's like somebody had written _If found, please return to the Circle_ on their foreheads.

'Hi,' I said. 'Sorry to imply you're wanted fugitives.'

'No trouble,' said Arthur (or Milton). 'We technically _are_ apostates, though not through any... direct action.'

Being Kirkish, I was familiar with direct action. I couldn't imagine either of these kids throwing a brick into a crowd or a burning bottle through a window, even if urged to do so at swordpoint.

'That's okay, kid, all the trendy people are apostates these days. What can I do for you?'

Sparkler stepped in, then, which reminds me in a more literal sense: that little entryway to my office was much too narrow for four people to stand in and not feel like they were accidentally inhaling each other's air and hair. 'They're academics, Varric! Very keen on knowledge.'

Milton (or Arthur) hadn't said a word, and looked like he was resisting very strongly the urge to break the barriers and lay hands on the old books that flanked the room.

'I can see that,' I said.

'Arthur has extensive knowledge of pre-Common linguistic development, reads twelve dead languages and speaks seven, and can decipher even _healers'_ handwriting,' Dorian explained. 'Milton is the fastest transcriber I've ever seen, and has been experimenting with the concept of _physically capturing_ the spoken word by carving precise grooves into a cylinder of wax, as a means of preserving information in a manner that can be accessible to those who don't read particular alphabets.'

'Really!' That's all there seemed to be to say. I mean, they looked about fourteen or fifteen, at most, but some Circles push specializations early. Or maybe they were weird even among the brainy types—I tend to not be a favorite among that crowd, so your guess is as good as mine.

' _Yes_ ,' said Dorian, with a little punch of pride like he'd taught them, himself, 'and they're going to help translate and catalogue your library.'

'Huh! Didn't know we had that kind of experts available.' When Dorian had mentioned wanting to do something with the library, I'd gotten the mental image of him taking books one by one, reading them to his heart's content, and then _maybe_ passing them along to some scholar or other after he'd finished with them. I didn't know he'd recruit more of Skyhold's odds and ends to actually do a proper job of it for me. The more the merrier, though. 'Anything I should know about this wonder duo before they dive in?'

Dorian nodded. 'They're inseparable. Milton doesn't speak, Arthur's terribly allergic to spider bites, and they tend to sleep during the day and work at night, so if you had any plans for midnight office assignations with venomous arachnids, perhaps retire to your quarters with them.'

'I _was_ gonna host a spider orgy.'

'Well, thank the Maker I got to you in time!' Dorian laid a hand on each of the young mages' shoulders in a comforting way. 'You three will get along splendidly, I'm certain of it.'

Beyond the door, distracted as always from the wholesome pursuit of literacy, I could hear Dollface and Snowdrop doing one of their clapping games.

_Andraste wed the Maker_   
_The Maker, he got tired_   
_The Maker's on vacation_   
_Andraste's on a_   
_**PIR** ates bury treasure_   
_Locked up inside a box_   
_A princess wooed a pirate_   
_The pirate got the—_

'And I'm sure they'll blend right in with the other kids,' Dorian added, somewhat less confidently. 'How about you go out and introduce yourselves?'

Arthur and Milton exchanged a hesitant look, then joined hands and went out into the press room to face the monsters together.

'Aren't they just _precious_ _?'_ said Dorian. 'So, Varric. I've set up a game of Wicked Grace for tonight, and you're coming.'

'Organizing a game is usually my thing, Sparkler.'

'Yes, well, you haven't been very _personable_ of late and I thought I might light a fire under you, so to speak.'

'Sparky's been lighting enough fires under me today, thanks.'

'Oh, be reasonable! Everyone misses you.'

'It's not like I've been hiding under a rock somewhere. That's the last place you'd find me, considering.'

'They miss you being yourself, is what I meant. Stop moping and go gamble and tell stories for one night! Maybe you'll wake up tomorrow feeling less burdened by woe.'

'Hungover, you mean.'

'You can't have a hangover without the drinking! Come on, please?'

I thought about it. 'All right.'

'Excellent! I'll tell the others we're on.'

A terrible notion crossed my mind. 'Is Curly going to be there?'

'Yes, he's going to _be_ there.' Dorian tutted. 'That's part of the _point_.'

I groaned, stretching my arms out across my desk and gesturing melodramatically. ' _Whyyy?_ Why do you hurt me like this?'

'You'll live,' he said. 'It would have seemed suspicious if I _hadn't_ invited him. Besides,' Dorian rubbed his hands together with playful anticipation, 'if he's still as bad at recognizing Josephine's tells, we may all get to see him dart about naked again.'

'Pretty sure he'd bow out of the game before letting me see him naked at this point, Sparkler.'

Dorian waggled one eyebrow. 'We shall have to wait and see, won't we?'


	4. The Tale, The Risk, and The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I think it was Fate,' said Cullen. 'On the days I believe in Fate, anyway. Otherwise I never would have read it.'  
> 'Ah.' Cassandra nodded. 'I have felt that way about books before, myself.'

It was my turn to toast.

'To...' I hesitated. 'To absent friends.'

I looked around at everyone, and dared a brief glance at Curly, whose expression was hard to read; as before, he sat beside me at the table (whose idea was that, you ask? I'll give you three guesses and all of them are Sparkler). I'd been trying to ignore the slight brush of his knee against mine all night.

I let out a long breath. 'To the words they've written on our hearts.'

Tankards bonked together solemnly, the game resumed, and soon we fell to telling stories. Seeker had a good one about some cousin of hers who was convinced a taxidermy dragon's head was haunted, and how she and her brother had staged a pretty convincing seance. When she was done, she said, 'Cullen, I think _you're_ next.'

He shook his head. 'Oh, no. The last time I told a tale, it was used by certain unscrupulous players,' he wagged a finger at Ruffles, 'to distract me from the game so she could beat me.'

Ruffles tutted, rolling her eyes and smiling. 'It is not about _winning_ , Commander. It's about the journey, the challenge!'

'I'd rather you didn't challenge my trousers off, this time.' There were a couple of laughs. 'All right, I'll tell a story. Let me see.' Cullen poured himself another glass of wine, took a sip, and said, 'Ah, yes, here's one:

'Once, when I was newly stationed in Kirkwall, I happened to offend a superior officer by calling him out on a procedural issue, and he decided the best way to get me back for it would be to put me on night watch for a month. Now, any guard or Templar will tell you that night watch in Kirkwall is livelier than most city's day watches, but I wasn't positioned in a part of the city that saw any action. Oh, no, my superior officer drew up the rota so I'd _always_ be in the dead spot. He could've put me in direct opposition to some of the worst dangers Kirkwall had to offer, but that would've meant I might have gotten some enjoyment out of it. So he decided I was to do my penance with boredom. No apostates to roust, too far from the vulnerable spots in the Circle gates to catch people sneaking out. Nothing.

'Most of those nights I was bored out of my mind, and I cursed him for his pettiness. Because even though I was alone, with no one around to keep me from breaking the rules, he knew I'd still abide by them! _Straight as an arrow, that Rutherford. Always by the book._ I couldn't sit down, or eat a penny bun, or even whistle to myself; I was to remain vigilant and without distraction, sundown to sunup.'

He paused, taking a drink.

'So I did. I became almost spitefully attuned to the sounds of the nighttime city. I knew that a woman in the flats opposite my post kept a pet bird that she sang a lullaby to every evening. I could differentiate between about twenty individual snores. I got to know the appearance of particular rats that frequented that block, their quirks of movement and behavior. I started thinking, aha, I'll show him, I'll be the most vigilant night watchman you've ever seen! Not that any of the information I was gathering might be of use to the Order, or the Circle I served. But feeling like I was doing _something_ was better than standing there blankly all night.'

'Didn't you tell me Templars get trained to watch a candle burn down while they chant?' the Inquisitor asked. 'Seems like patience is part of the package.'

'It is,' Cullen agreed, 'but I'm only human, and I felt slighted at the time, so the waiting was intolerable. In my mind, I hadn't done anything wrong—and maybe I hadn't. But someone with a good head on his shoulders had felt personally injured by my actions, so I had to learn some kind of lesson from that.'

Bull strolled back from the tavern kitchen and started handing out little pies off a tray. 'Grub's up. What did I miss?'

'It's a story about learning a lesson even when you don't want to,' said Cole.

Cullen was gestured to continue.

'One night it was so quiet I started to wonder if the local snorers had been murdered by their exasperated spouses. I was doing the circuit from one end to the other, round the square and back again, when I heard a splash.'

'A _splash_?' said Ruffles. Having been reared on the ooh-and-ahh audience participation of Orlesian theatre that was nearly as dramatic as what happened onstage, she was always an excellent audience.

'A _splash_ ,' Cullen confirmed. 'I hadn't spotted anyone, but it was one of those eerie, moonless nights where every shadow seems to have deeper pockets than you can remember having seen before.' As I listened to this, a strange, creeping feeling of familiarity began to steal over me, mingled with an appreciation for his turn of phrase. 'It must have been someone emptying their pot out the window, I thought, or a noise from the harbor amplified by the unusual stillness of the night. But as I made my way back across the square, I spotted something... _dark_... in the recesses of the fountain.'

Bull had his chair turned around, folded arms resting on the back as he listened and ate a pie that looked absolutely minuscule in his hands. 'Was it a body? An assassin's gory blade, billowing blood into the water?'

'It was a book,' said Cullen. 'I found myself perplexed. Who would throw a book in a fountain? I fished it out and unstuck the pages best I could, and I read it under a lamp in the square. _All_ of it.'

Cassandra gave him a knowing look. 'But that was against the rules. What about your _vigilance_ , Commander?'

'Damn my vigilance!' Cullen laughed, shaking his head. 'This was the most interesting thing to happen to me in _weeks_ , and I was too curious to leave it alone.'

'Well, go on,' said Blackwall, 'what was it about?'

'It was a book of poems,' said Cullen. 'Not simple "roses are red" rubbish, either. I couldn't put it down.' He stopped to take a bite of his little pie. 'This is very good, Iron Bull, thank you. What's in these?'

'Secrets,' said Bull.

'So that's it?' said Sera from her seat in the rafters, where she'd been peeping at everybody's cards. 'Found a poxy book in a fountain, la dee da, the end?'

'The story isn't finished yet,' said Cole.

Cullen smiled a little. 'You're right. I lost the book when the Circle fell, but through rather unusual circumstances I recently got into contact with the poet himself, and relayed to him how I'd discovered his work.'

'He must have been unhappy to discover that someone threw his writing away like that!' said Cassandra.

I made a faintly skeptical noise. 'I'm sure whoever it was had their reasons.'

'I think it was Fate,' said Cullen. 'On the days I believe in Fate, anyway. Otherwise I never would have read it.'

'Ah.' Cassandra nodded. 'I have felt that way about books before, myself.'

'Do you still write to him?' Dorian asked, playing along—looking at me as he spoke, rather than at Cullen.

Cullen shrugged, looking down at his hands. 'He's... we had a bit of a misunderstanding, I'm afraid. Intentions were somewhat muddled, and I spoke rashly. I'm sorry to say that hard words were exchanged, and we parted not on the best of terms.'

Ruffles, who'd been listening with rapt attention and the ends of her fingers over her mouth, said very softly, 'Oh, no!'

Bull had been subjecting Cullen to an intense and slightly tipsy level of scrutiny, and said, 'You're carrying a _torch_ for this guy, aren't you?'

'What? No, of course not.'

'You _are_. The look on your face!' Bull gave him a knowing wink. 'Come on, you're among friends. We won't fault you on your taste in men.'

'Too true,' said Dorian. 'One's proclivities are one's own.'

Overhead, Sera giggled a little. ' _Proclivities_ sounds like a bit that hangs down.'

In a move that surprised me even more than his willingness to tell this story, Cullen gave a short huff of a sigh, sat up straighter in his chair and said, 'All right, and what if I am carrying a torch?'

'You might _apologize_ for being harsh with him,' Cassandra suggested, with a roll of her eyes.

I laughed. 'Is that so? Interesting advice! Everybody hear that? Straight from the horse's mouth, you're all my witnesses—'

She pursed her lips a little, clearly choosing her words. 'I may lash out at others at times, when my temper gets away from me or in moments of... _intensity_ ,' she said, 'but when I realize, I _admit_ to it, do I not?'

'She does,' Dorian conceded. 'Even to me.'

'I've seen it,' said the Inquisitor.

Blackwall agreed. 'If the Lady Seeker can find it in her heart to ask _Dorian's_ forgiveness, I'm sure you could ask your poet, Cullen.' A terrible concept seemed to occur to him. 'Not an irritating fop, is he?'

'Not irritating,' said Cullen, then made a so-so gesture. ' _Mildly_ foppish. Though he's aware enough of its pomposity to always be the first to make a joke at his own expense.'

'I don't know,' I said. I'd barely dared stick my oar in so far, fearing I'd disrupt the conversation and wouldn't be able to learn more, but I couldn't help it. I can't sit at a table with cards in front of me and _not_ say something, especially when the topic at hand is myself. 'The guy who makes sure to get the first word in tends to always want the last one, too.'

'Sometimes that's a good thing,' said Cullen, glancing at me for a moment and then busying himself with pouring the Inquisitor more wine. 'Sometimes he knows what needs to be said.'

'What are those poems,' Cassandra wondered to no one in particular, 'they are short and memorable, with the final line like a punch to the chest?'

'Epigrams,' said Cullen. 'My poet's rather good at those.'

No one failed to catch the possessive _my_ , especially not me.

The Inquisitor, who'd been pretty quiet, leaned chin-on-hands, elbows-on-the-table and said, 'You miss him, don't you? Whatever the misunderstanding was must have been a big deal, you're pining.'

Cullen's face flushed, avoiding my gaze. 'I don't know if _pining_ is the word.'

'It is,' said Cole matter-of-factly.

'What a classic romance!' said Ruffles. 'Really, Cullen, I didn't know you had it in you.'

He laughed a little, self-conscious. 'Nor did I, in truth.'

'Josephine is right,' said Cassandra. 'There _does_ seem to be a familiar plot. Brought together by a twist of fate, two people as unlike one another as could be found, tragically sundered by misconception, both aching to be reunited despite it all?' She nodded approvingly. 'I would read that.'

I coughed a bit. 'All right, Curly, I think that's enough sap for one night.' (I noted that Seeker—and Sparkler, _and_ Tiny—seemed to sigh a little in disappointment, at that.) 'Who do you think can survive the next hand?'

'Deal me in,' said Cullen. 'I'll not rest until our Lady Ambassador's lost at least a few coppers.'

Ruffles gave him a sly grin. 'Only _coppers_ , Commander? Really, where _is_ your famous southern boldness tonight?'

Cole was bent over his pint of soft-cider, face hidden by his hat, but everyone heard: 'Telling his story was very bold, wasn't it? Strong hands never expected to hold a flower without crushing it, turning to his family to show them where the petals bruised and proved his fear.'

As was often the way when the Kid said something incisively insightful, there was a moment of ringing silence and then a couple people cleared their throats.

'Well!' said Ruffles cheerfully, to reclaim the mood. 'Anyone else want to bet, or is Cullen the only one losing his shirt tonight?'

Bull tossed a few royals onto the table, the start of the pile. 'I came without a shirt. _Try_ me.'

* * *

I did something reckless.

When someone challenges me to write something, I write it. This is a grave and troubling defect in my character that you—having already read one installment of this (I regret to say) three-volume memoir—should have anticipated. Nothing should surprise you anymore. If you're still shaking your fist and saying _Damn it, Tethras, what the hell are you doing?_ at this stage without a hint of resignation, then I have some prime real estate in the south of Ferelden I'd like to sell you.

I started leaving him little notes. Not letters sent directly or stuck under the edge of the blotter; these were itty-bitty slips of paper I sneaked into his personal effects when I could. Short verses, to remind him that I cared, because (even now!) he thought I was rather good at them.

Pinned to his bookcase:

 _I started my journey so cocky and smart,_  
_I thought myself clever and bursting with Art,_  
_I thought myself quicker than anyone living—_  
_But Maker, I'm stupid. I hope you're forgiving._

Left on the War Table under his mug:

 _If wishes were fishes_  
_I'd throw them all back._  
_Who asked for that shit?_  
_I don't know about you, but I_  
_Wished for someone smart enough_  
_To never let me catch him._

That sort of thing. He never mentioned it, but when we crossed paths he would occasionally smile, just a bit. Not every time—usually he was busy and looking unhealthily serious—but sometimes. And that was a good sign.

* * *

In a previous chapter I briefly touched upon an important element of my personal dealings, which is that I don't like to make a habit of standing in front of a big desk while a titled (and occasional _entitled_ ) person does their level best to discover the most efficient way to make a person feel like they've been kicked in the fork, using only a few choice words and a flick of an eyebrow. But gather round and heed your Uncle Varric, kids, because this is a hell of a thing: Sometimes, you don't make your own habits. Sometimes somebody gives them to you, free of charge, and you're left holding this thing like, what is this? I didn't order this. But you can't give it back, no matter how much you insist that the thing you asked for should come with a little paper umbrella in it.

So there I was, having been summoned to Ruffles' lair once again. I wondered if something in The Herald (Issue #3 having just gone out the previous weekend) had caused someone to withdraw their Inquisition funding, or to kill somebody in a pub, or to (Maker forbid) send Ruffles a snippy letter full of personal remarks.

Curly was also in attendance, which rattled me still further. Was I being taken off the project? Or was this just a really strange way to find out that he was agreeing to pose as literal poster boy, as I'd joked so many months ago?

When Nightingale and the Inquisitor came in, conversing in hushed tones as they approached the desk, I couldn't stand it anymore.

'All right, who died?'

'No one we know,' said our beautiful and terrifying spymaster. 'Yet.'

Ruffles tried to soften the ominousness. 'Leliana is referring to the plot to assassinate Empress Celene, of course.'

'Oh, of course,' I said. 'Because nobody _ever_ kicks the bucket because Nightingale made an offhand comment.' I shot her a quick glance. 'No offense.'

'You wound me,' said Nightingale, a smirk pulling at her expression. 'I haven't slaughtered a traitor in weeks.'

'You and Dorian should get together some lazy afternoon,' I suggested. 'He can round up double-crossers for you to stick knives in, and you can find some high-society sycophant to peel his grapes.'

'Wonderful! I'll be sure to pencil that in between beheadings.'

Ruffles tried to bring things to order. ' _As you all know,_ we have secured invitations to the ball at the Winter Palace, under the guise of which the Empress will be entering into peace talks with her cousin, Duke Gaspard. The Inquisitor is to choose who will be among the Inquisitorial Guard.'

'The capital letters are a nice touch,' said Curly, who'd always seemed to see the court intrigue stuff as something of a waste of time.

'My advisors are coming, of course,' the Inquisitor told me. 'Each of them plays a vital role in my understanding how any of this works. But the traditional number for a proper introduction-to-court retinue is _seven_ , apparently, so I need to pick three more people to come. I wanted you to weigh in on the rest of the group, Varric.'

'What? Why?'

The Inquisitor shrugged. 'Hmm, maybe because you're good with people? You know how different group dynamics affect the outcome of a situation.'

'Well, yeah, I got eyes.'

'Which is why we're requesting that you use those eyes to our advantage,' said Nightingale, in a rare moment of transparency and cooperativeness. 'We need our cunning thinkers on this, and you have a way of twisting things to suit requirements.'

'Nice way of saying I'm a weasel,' I noted good-naturedly.

'Who would fare best amid the turmoil of the Game? The four of us,' she tipped her head to the others, eyes narrowed a little, 'are somewhat _divided_ in our opinions.'

'I still say we take our best warriors and leave it at that,' said Cullen. 'Show of force,' he grimaced a little, 'even if it's a _dog-and-pony_ show. Intimidate the potential assassins into thinking twice.'

'And I thought that our rogues would suit the bill far better,' said Leliana. 'One cannot simply bang on the table and be told all, in a place like this. We need people who can pick locks, scale walls, know where and how best to eavesdrop! We need an intimate understanding of poisons and projectiles on our side, as it's unlikely someone would just come at the Empress with something so common as a _knife_. But even if there _were_ blades, showing we swing the biggest sword will only aggravate our targets into swinging theirs harder in retaliation, to prove us wrong.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'Ruffles? Care to join in the chorus?'

'I believe,' she fiddled with her quill, 'that mages might be our best play. Circle life, or indeed the careful avoidance of trouble by which one must live in apostasy, is a remarkable preparatory course for navigating social entanglements with the nobility. One is constantly in danger, constantly watched and judged and feared—though none who stand against them will admit to this last point. And while a rogue may fire an arrow in time to stop an assassin at their work, or a warrior may tackle them to the ballroom floor, a mage can accomplish what neither of the others can: fully shield the Empress from attack, at a moment's notice, wrench a weapon from an assailant's hand from across the room, detect poison with a simple spell.'

The Inquisitor had been nodding along to what each of them had said, and when I made an emphatic little gesture to indicate how thoroughly not-useful that was, all I got in reply was, ' _What?_ They all make a very good argument!'

I sighed. 'Guess that's why I'm here. All right, here's my two bits: First of all, Sparkler's going.'

'Why?' said Cullen. 'Tevinter court functions entirely differently, it's not as if he'll know all the tricks.'

'True, but he'll know everyone in the room before he's even introduced. Lord So-and-So is still Lord So-and-So, no matter what hole he springs from. Sparkler's a toff, born and bred. He speaks their snooty language without having any connections in court, himself, and as a mage from a competitive Circle he's as cutthroat and conniving as anyone could ask for.'

Ruffles seemed to agree. 'Dorian _does_ know how to handle himself amongst our high-born guests...'

'Not to mention,' I went on, 'he's got that exotic foreign charm that seems so popular with Orlesians these days.'

The Inquisitor backed me up on that. 'I know for a fact that this season's most to-die-for gentlemen's masks have an exaggeratedly Northern profile. The brow and jawline are unmistakably Tevinter. _Very_ interesting, considering the current political climate. A subtle show of the underlying ethos of the upper classes' cultural zeitgeist...?'

This garnered a couple of startled looks.

' _What?_ Woe betide the fool who fails to pay attention when Vivienne talks at them.'

'Speaking of Madame de Fer...' said Nightingale, always one to root for Team Fancy Slippers.

'Nope,' I said. 'She's too good, she'll make it harder.'

Cullen shook his head. 'That doesn't make sense. If we've been roped into indulging the Game, shouldn't we rely upon its strongest pieces?'

'That's a good thought if you're playing chess—you want to keep your heavy hitters on board for as long as possible, because taking down the big pegs with a couple of pawns can take ages. But sometimes the most logical strategy is the most like to go bust, because people are people, no matter how good a player they think they are. And, uh, I get the feeling that Iron Lady can occasionally try the Inquisitor's social acumen a _little_ too high.'

This got a fervent nod from the hapless Herald in question.

'I'd take our Seeker, instead,' I said. 'She's shrewd but people don't see it under the grump and the tactlessness. She may not be your best example of a well-mannered guest, but she can talk you into a corner until you don't know which way is up, and you don't even notice it until she's already got you by the short hairs. Seeker can smell a rat and knows right where to poke 'em so they squeal.'

'Cassandra _would_ be a good choice,' Cullen agreed.

'And I'm a shoe-in, obviously,' I added.

'Are you?' said Nightingale, though without any real challenge behind it; that meant she approved. 'Not many dwarves in Halamshiral, you realize.'

'Ah, but you're forgetting my dazzling Orlesian book sales. I'll be covered with courtiers. Drowning in bodices and codpieces! Who knows what somebody might let slip if I bribed them with my personal "coin of the realm"?' I waggled my eyebrows.

Curly gave me a faintly horrified glance. 'You'd _shag a random noble_ for information?'

Ruffles shook her head, unperturbed by the idea but knowing he'd missed the mark. 'Surely he means insider information on Guild matters.'

I gave Nightingale a look. 'Please tell the good people what I mean, o mistress of the corvids.'

Her lips curled up at the ends in that barely-there, spooky expression that gave scouts nightmares. ' _Spoilers_.'


	5. Unsigned, Unsent, Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wasn't taken in. I went gladly._

_The bridge between fantasy and reality has broken, shattered suspension of disbelief and now all I can see is the fakery in life. The automatic smile when one feels no cheer, the sympathetic nod when one is clearly bored senseless, the encouragement when one knows something is likely a lost cause. Do we not all **act** for the benefit of others? Little lies hold us all aloft out of the dirt. If I deny the good intentions of **but one** , I must point to them all and refuse to accept their comforts just as I refused yours. What manner of man would do this? When Josephine tells me I'm looking well, do I rebuff the mild hollowness of the compliment with confrontation? When a soldier is too hurt to return to the front, do I tell them bluntly that they're failing at their duty? Never, never. Honesty may, in the end, be more important than kindness, but import is not what warms the heart. One's mere **utility** cannot override the needs of the soul. _

_And such artifice we concoct for one another, and for ourselves, every blessed day the Maker gives us! I was so certain I was blameless of it, or at least bore less blame that I assigned to you. I was so proud, so sure. I never noticed my own deceit until I swore in anger to shun dishonesty from here on. I noticed, at last, how much I lie to others, easy as breathing. I noticed how much I lie to myself._

_My artificer, steeped in artifice, I know that you have felt that moment of sharp understanding, the moment of choice. What remains, and what needs be destroyed to preserve the integrity of the thing? One changes one's meaning so the lines will rhyme, cuts off the most important words to spare the meter. Embellishment and redaction in tandem are what separate a fine tale from the humdrum what-does-it-all-add-up-to of existing. We have no narrative but that which we construct. Who am I, then, to be angry at the storyteller, when I enjoy his telling so deeply?_

_I felt appreciated, important as a person rather than simply as a superior or a pillar of strength fit only to support others, never simply to be admired, or wanted, or needed for Who rather than What._

_I wasn't taken in. I went gladly. More even than that, I knocked, hammered at the door and begged in my heart to be allowed inside. You didn't drag me into your deception, or pull the wool over my eyes to make a fool of me. You didn't trick me or make demands. You presented a possibility, and I could have denied you, but I didn't. I **embraced** it. _

_Would that I had embraced you._

That one was dropped into the fire. This, too,

 _I would choose you each time even if I had choices unlimited,_  
_I would sing you the song of my heart even when it sounds primitive,_  
_I would listen to all of your tales and be thoroughly riveted,_  
_And I'd tell you myself, if I ever woke up uninhibited._

Scrawled crooked and fast but without a single crossing-out, as if in poor light by one who was very tired but whom inspiration had struck with thunderclap clarity:

 _I know you as two men, but they are one_  
_I know you are but one, but I see two;_  
_You fear my spurning both o'er one man's failing,_  
_But this man's failing was to not see you._  
_I hear the paper hit the floor and shudder_  
_Remembering my coldness on that day,_  
_Unfolding and unfolding every letter,_  
_Each letter but the one I threw away!_  
_I threw away not only words, but whispers_  
_I could have heard, and care I could have shown;_  
_I threw away a folded little future_  
_And half of it was **yours**. Had I but known,_  
_Had I but stopped, considered consequences_  
_Instead of dwelling solely on my pride!_  
_Oh, I was **fooled** , I thought, by vile deception— _  
_When all deception had gone on inside._  
_I sicken in my need for you, I suffer_  
_And know that suffering is by my hand._  
_I weaken and I ache for you! A lover_  
_I never truly had. I understand_  
_I cannot yet repent from my undoing,_  
_For to repent, a man must turn away;_  
_I will not turn, I **dare** not! Sweet Andraste_  
_Hold fiercely and steadfastly here, I pray,_  
_And bring to me the dawn that we've been promised_  
_And cast on me the furious light thereof,_  
_That all may see the stone that slew my honor:_  
_The condemnation of the one I love._

In a blank-book, very small script on small pages meant for much lighter thoughts than these:

_He is part of you as much as my own personas are a part of me. And while I've never created a life outside of my own, or indeed constructed a life out of the air, that's likely due to not being as fine a storyteller. It would not occur to me to fashion myself a secret world in which to rest, to play, to feel safe. I envy you that._

On the opposite page, a different day,

_What can mend what I've so hastily sundered? After what I've said, I doubt you'd **want** to trust me again, even if you could. I was so harsh out of hurt. And yet, though I know I must have hurt you, wounded you deeply, you didn't lash out in return. You didn't give me a piece of your mind—you returned a piece of my **own**. Hearing you tell me the very words I'd written you, I recalled how I felt when I wrote them, how safe, how trusting, how enamored! And while in that moment of being reminded the memory was bitter on my tongue, in the light of reason I know it to have felt so because it had followed such sweetness. _

The page turned hastily to continue, ink of the last line pressed into blotches between the leaves,

_Oh, such pleasure in writing to you, in reading your words! I've read your letters and verses so many times in these weeks, I fear the pages will fall apart. I cannot deny that I want you. And I cannot deny that the Arch I know is truly the Varric I didn't. Can you ever forgive me?_

_I was so accustomed to needing to fight, to defend, that I injured one of my own men. We are on the same side; our many facets make something whole and good, something that feels right. I need fear no volley from your bow, and you no sting of my blade. I lay down my arms for you! I would lay down my **life**. _

_Arch, my Archie, my all, Varric, I miss you._

Scrunched into a tightly-crumpled ball and tossed into the corner of the Commander's room, missing the wastepaper basket entirely,

_Varric,_

_~~I need~~ _

Another:

_Varric,_

_I can't take this anymore. I must speak with you, must hear from your lips that in some way I may be forgiven. Please._

Another:

_Varric,_

_Come to me tonight, climb the ladder. I promise it won't snap at you or spit poison, and nor shall I._

One more for the pile,

_I saw you today as you returned from your journey. Tired and dusty from the road, yet I found you radiant. Are these a fool's words? I know not, I only see beauty when I look at you, and feel a dragging tug beneath my ribs, longing and regret. From where I stood on the battlements you couldn't see me, and though a shout might have alerted you, brought you up the stair to me and into my arms, I felt farther from you than I ever have. Three paces would seem a thousand miles, when I cannot discern if your heart is closed to me. I might feel your breath against my skin and still dare not reach to touch._

One more for the fire,

_What have you done to me? I've never felt this way. A beloved thorn within, pressed sharp against all that keeps me living: to snag my breath, to sting my heart. What have you done to me?_

_What have I done to you?_


	6. The Journey, The Stripe, and The Aperitif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Well, well! Looks like the only one of us drowning in bodices and codpieces is _you,_ Curly.'  
>  One of his fangirls gasped, her eyes lighting up. 'Why, Commander Cullen, you did not say you were friends with _Monsieur Tethras!'_

The scuff-scuff of thick rope grazing over the dirt was almost meditative in its repetition. Small, eerie voices could be heard chanting through the mist that cloaked the courtyard, a chilling tune of the sort known only to those fae and curious creatures that occupy the space between Born and Grown.

 _Captain Rainy took an axe_  
_Gave his lordship forty whacks_  
_When he saw what he had done_  
_Gave the children forty-one_

 _Captain Rainy got away_  
_For his crime he did not pay_

 _If you ever chance to go_  
_Down the streets of Val Royeaux_  
_Tell the hangman, save a string_  
_Captain Rainy's got to swing_

'Morbid little bastards, aren't they?' I called cheerfully from the stable door into Hero's carpentry cave.

Blackwall was looking more dour than usual, and just grunted in response.

'What's with him?' I said, turning to Sparkler, who was saddling his incredibly opinionated horse.

'Perhaps he nicked himself with a chisel,' Sparkler suggested. 'He certainly didn't nick himself with a _razor_.'

'You know, I wonder if maybe all the hair's up top and the rest is just... shiny bald, down there.'

Dorian gave me a squeamish look. 'Surely not?'

'Bald as a bean. Imagine Chuckles, holding a boiled egg to either side.'

'Maker preserve me, I may die!'

'Die of lust, maybe. I know you like 'em big and angry and sporadically groomed.'

_'Varric!'_

I relented, laughing. 'All right, all right.' I took a swing from my flask of coffee. 'You ready for this whole assassin party?'

Dorian tutted. 'That would be so much more fun than what it is. I'd want to take young Be-Thankful as my plus one, it would be a delightfully enriching experience.'

'You already gave her a big knife! Stop encouraging her.'

He gave me a supercilious look. 'Varric Tethras, I will tell anyone who will listen that you are against the enthusiastic support of education for small girls, just you _wait_.'

I leaned against a post, well away from the horse. 'What's your price to never say that out loud again?'

'The agreement that you will never again so much as imply the image of Blackwall's bald eggs with Solas perched betwixt.'

Sera's head poked round the end of the stalls. 'Who's got baldy legs? Other than Cole. He's got pasty white chicken legs from the knee down. Knee up, thighs like a prizefighter. Like he got pieced together out of a bin of other people's bones and things.'

The three of us took a moment to imagine a sort of Teatime Assortment of limbs, the Kid experimenting with different combinations until he found something shaped like a friend.

'That does sound like him,' I said. 'You here to see us off?'

She shook her head, and I noticed she was chewing a piece of grass. 'I'm here to give Dorian his _assignment_.'

I turned to Dorian, mock-aghast. 'You're a _Jenny_ now, Sparkler? I thought they called you guys Mollies up yonder.'

Dorian grinned. 'I can have more than one name, too.' He fed his horse a sweetie. 'But no, I'm still meant to practice my skipping while we're away.'

I looked between Sparkler and Buttercup. 'You can't be serious.' I looked again. 'You're serious.'

'Why shouldn't I be? Grace and dexterity are the watchwords of the finer class of mages.'

'Oh, watchwords, are they?' said Iron Bull, who presumably hadn't come to see us off, either. 'Bit hard to say "grace and dexterity!" in the heat of the moment.'

Dorian huffed. 'I enunciate perfectly clearly, even on occasions of... _spirited discourse_.'

Sera huffed back at him. 'Spirited discourse? That what you call it up your magey tower?'

Bull elbowed me in a matey way. 'That's academics for you! Always eager to spend _hours_ coming to a point, dragging it out until they're _exhausted_. Hey, Dorian, would you call yourself an experienced... debater?'

We were saved from Dorian's incensed remark by the arrival of our actual traveling companions. Ruffles, complete with the compact travel version of her clipboard, began regaling us with logistics regarding the Inquisitor's carriage (which was new and shiny) and how often we might take shifts riding in it instead of on horseback or the supply cart. The Inquisitor suggested that everybody pile in and enjoy the bouncy seats and spring suspension on the ride down the mountain, but Josephine insisted that seven people could not, in fact, fit in a landau.

As we were waved on our way by our few companions who'd risen early enough to do so, we could still hear the kids skipping rope in the yard, to a much cheerier chant than before,

 _Empress Celene holds great big balls!_  
_How many miles to Halamshiral?_  
_One! Two! Three! Four!—_

By the time we were getting into the valley it was nearly midday, and the fog had mostly cooked off. While navigating a slid-away portion of the path, my horse and Cullen's fell into step as the road widened again.

We didn't say anything to each other for a few minutes, listening to the Inquisitor and Dorian singing a bawdy duet up ahead, but we did sneak a few looks.

'You're sunburned,' said Cullen, eventually.

'Desert'll do that to you,' I pointed out. 'We've only been back from the Howling Void a couple weeks, and dwarva aren't exactly great at recovering from—'

'A stripe right across your nose,' he added.

I stopped mid-thought, mouth open dumbly for a second, then I closed it, looking down at my hands on the reins, at the clover lining the road, _anything_ , because the look on his face when I glanced up at him had had such a hopefulness, such a fondness I felt like he'd tied a string around my heart and yanked.

'Oh,' I said.

He smiled just a little, just enough. 'It suits you.'

I might've been sunburned, but his face was red, too.

* * *

We stopped at an inn the third evening on the road; there had been trouble when we'd decamped that morning, a pack of sellswords sent to disrupt the journey. And while we'd dispatched them without much trouble, by nightfall I was still too keyed-up to sleep. I sat on one of the long benches by the fire, nursing a mug of hot cider with a mulch of stiff, bark-like spices floating in it.

I felt eyes on the back of my neck, and nearly jumped when I spotted Nightingale emerge from the shadows.

'Andraste's tits, you could give somebody a heart condition, lurking like that.'

She smiled. 'I often do.' She took a seat across from me, looking somehow more fatal in yellow silk pajamas than she did in her usual cloak-and-dagger getup. This was one of those features of a really good spymaster that I just couldn't pull off, myself; most of the time I looked disheveled and dubiously competent while fully dressed, much less in bedtime attire. 'You are working things out with him, yes?'

I didn't even question it anymore, I just assumed that if she wasn't reading everyone's minds, she was at least reading their mail. 'Might be,' I said.

'Good.' She wasn't looking at me, watching the logs shifting in the fire instead. 'Because if you hurt him again I'll core you like an apple, nail your heart to the tavern door, and throw your body into a nug pen.'

'That's fair.' I took a drink of cider, narrowly avoiding a pokey bit of star anise. 'Didn't know you were so protective of Curly.'

Nightingale did one of those one-shoulder Orlesian shrugs, making the noise in the back of her nose that accompanies the gesture by default. 'I've worked with former Templars before. You look out for them, they look out for you.' She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes narrowed. 'And if someone breaks their heart, you _hunt them down.'_ She smiled innocently as she got up. 'Sweet dreams!'

* * *

_The truth is always lurking in the bottom of a glass;_   
_I trap the truth behind my teeth and do not let it pass._   
_I swallow all the honesty, it burns me going down,_   
_And that is why so many people still keep me around._

_The dark had always waited—I pretended not to see;_   
_If I didn't deign acknowledge it, it couldn't bother me._   
_If I rushed to cross that broken bridge before it fell apart_   
_And I spared all others' feelings, then perhaps they'd spare my heart._

_Yet the thing you must remember is that I'm a wretched fool_   
_And I've earned each blessed moment that the Maker's will is cruel;_   
_And in time these countless lessons will break through my liar's crust,_   
_But for now, I'll leave my truth with you. You're all that I can trust._

* * *

On a small scrap of a torn page of The Herald, crumpled and tossed in the fire:

_I remember the storm. You of all people should know that_

_I of all people would understand. You didn't know then, not_

_really, but you know now, and you know who I am. What I am._

_I told you I was vain and spoiled and a coward, and that's true_

_when I look at myself. But what I see when I look at you isn't_

_what you see in yourself. Maybe you'd see something different_

_in me, too._

* * *

'So,' said the Inquisitor. We were on shift in the carriage, with Ruffles and Cassandra dozing in the seats opposite, their legs tangled together across the middle of the seat as they leaned back against the side cushions. 'Your writing's pretty popular on this side of the map?'

'Not according to my publisher,' I said, 'whom I've fired, by the way. I'm at a bit of a literary loose end these days.'

'Do Orlesians like the serials best, or the poems?'

I opened my mouth to reply, then stopped, 'Hmm.'

The Inquisitor gave me a friendly nudge with an elbow. 'Nobody tattled, don't worry.'

'Then how'd you know?'

That prompted a bit of a pause. The Inquisitor looked out of the window at the passing fields, and replied quietly, 'Look, it was a long night in the Approach and I couldn't sleep and… I wanted to hear about what you were really like before the Inquisition. You don't _talk_ about yourself, Varric. You talk about how you interface with _other_ people. You know?'

I did know. 'So…'

'Hawke might have mentioned it.'

'Shit, I didn't know _Hawke_ knew.'

'Finding out was an accident, apparently. Something about seeing a letter on your desk, back in the day...?'

'Oh.'

The road bumped away beneath the carriage wheels.

'Then, uh. Hawke never asked you about the whole Arch Tarstrive thing, I gather?'

I shook my head, remembering verses about how he (the poet) picked fights with a friend's lover because he couldn't be that friend's lover, himself.

The Inquisitor settled back into the cushions, watching the world go by. 'Wonder why that was.'

* * *

Stopped in a little town to change horses and fill the water barrel on the cart, everyone took the opportunity to stretch their legs, buy little odds and ends they'd forgotten to pack, and to send any messages with the Inquisition scout who was posted along the road. I watched from afar as Curly held a piece of paper against the side of the carriage, trying to get his pen to flow properly at that angle, as he didn't have a table available to scrawl whatever message he needed to relay. The sun was coming through the scattering rain clouds of earlier that morning, in thick beams that caught motes of dust and turned them through some heavenly alchemy into gold. The light caught Cullen and illuminated every line and edge, the ridge of muscle in his forearm, the puff of feathers at his collar. Even frowning slightly with tip of his tongue poking out as he signed his name, he was beautiful.

I took out my pocket notebook, being more accustomed to writing while standing up (and sensible enough to use a _pencil_ when circumstance dictates). I'd tuck the resulting poem into his pack, knowing he'd find it later.

_Other poets have said all that needs to be said_   
_About hair that grows out of your head._   
_I'm eschewing its charms; to the hair on your arms_   
_Is where I shift my focus instead._   
_They're translucently soft like the fluff on a moth_   
_In a beam of the moonlight so pure;_   
_Is it asking too much—are they silken to touch?_   
_I'd be happy to feel, to be sure._   
_Finest fuzz in the land bending under my hand,_   
_Velvet skimming the breadth of my palm,_   
_At this gentle caress would you sigh and say "yes"_   
_As your face went deliciously calm?_   
_Since I'm looking for facts, I'd consider such acts_   
_To be well within regular bounds,_   
_No embarrassment felt while I'm making you melt_   
_And emit such incredible sounds!_   
_All conjecture, of course—I can't ask on the force_   
_Of assuming you'd fancy a grope._   
_But I'm watching you write, and I squirm and I fight_   
_Down the urge to acknowledge I hope._

* * *

Actual historians can explain how things fell out at the Winter Palace. Who died, who didn't, how often the Inquisitor (metaphorically and literally) stepped on regal toes. Here's what nobody else will tell you:

Curly stood by one of the high windows, surrounded by marriageable young noblewomen, and a couple of noblemen as well, hanging on his every word and occasionally off his arms.

I caught him in a lull in conversation, just after the Inquisitor had floated by to check for news.

'Well, well! Looks like the only one of us drowning in bodices and codpieces is _you_ , Curly.'

One of his fangirls gasped, her eyes lighting up. 'Why, Commander Cullen, you did not say you were friends with _Monsieur Tethras!'_

Her identically-masked friend turned and clasped my hands in hers. ' _Do_ tell us, does he prefer blondes or brunettes? Elvire and I simply _can't_ get him to confess!'

'He might like redheads?' I told her. 'The lighter ones, you know, sort of strawberry-blond.'

Elvire, the first girl, snapped her fingers in disappointment. 'Damn. We mustn't tell Jacinthe, that ginger harpy will try to steal him from us!'

Cullen looked like he was trying to imagine he were somewhere else, looking around for something to focus on other than the debate about his preferences. He laid eyes on the young lord next to him, however, who wiggled silk-gloved fingers in flirtatious greeting, and Cullen turned immediately back to me.

'Don't encourage them, Varric. I'm suffering enough as it is.'

'Ah, well. I didn't _want_ to be the bearer of bad news,' I said, 'but it's cruel to torment them like this, Cullen. I can't allow this to continue.' I turned to the little gaggle of hangers-on and said, 'He's taken, folks.'

The lord at Cullen's side gave a soft little wail of defeat. 'Pourquoi les beaux doivent-ils toujours être mariés ou tragiquement _hétéro?'_

'Oh, he's not married,' I reassured him, 'but it's a done deal, regardless. Wild horses couldn't drag him away.'

'What lucky person holds his heart?' asked Elvire, with the air of someone who, while out of the running, still wanted the gossip.

'Arch Tarstrive, ever heard of him? Erotic poetry banned in fourteen cities and the entirety of Tevinter...?'

The despairing lord made another noise, a hand at his throat, one at the brow of his mask. 'Oh, la! It is worse than I feared! We shall _never_ have him, if _that_ one has.'

I turned back to Curly, trying not to laugh. 'And here you are _stringing these poor darlings along_ , Cullen, I'm surprised at you!'

He looked so grateful he might slide down the wall to his knees. 'I... didn't know how to tell them.'

'You bastard. They had such high hopes!'

'I know, I know! It was wrong of me!' His mouth was twitching in a little smirk, now, too, and he put his hand up to hide it, feigning regret. 'So wrong of me,' he added, from behind his hand.

'Come on,' I told him, 'outside, _now_. I'm giving you a piece of my mind that would burn delicate ears to hear it!'

'Don't tell him off too sharply, Monsieur Tethras!' pleaded one of the miscellaneous girls. 'I could not _bear_ to see his downcast look!'

I dragged Cullen away by the arm, out onto the nearest balcony, which was blissfully deserted save for a spindly table crowded with empty glasses.

'Thank the Maker,' he said on a long exhale of relief, collapsing onto a stone bench. 'I owe you a life-debt.'

I waved it away. 'Worth it to see the look on your face, Curly, trust me.' I leaned on my elbows against the marble railing, looking down into the darkened hills beyond the palace grounds. I spotted a perfectly good bottle of brandy laying on its side in the strand of flowerbed beside me and picked it up. 'Grab one of those glasses, you need a drink after a performance like that. Improvising off the battlefield probably takes a lot out of you.'

Cullen shook his head. 'Got to keep alert, and I'm awaiting the Inquisitor's signal.'

'We're within sight of the door, if you're needed you can dash off like the big damn hero you are.' I only poured half a finger into the little aperitif glass. 'Just a nip. Don't they slosh this stuff into perishing mountaineers to revive them in their death throes? You look like you just fell down Frostbacks and hit every boulder on the way down, you deserve a pick-me-up.'

'Oh, very well,' he accepted the glass, glad to have been convinced, and peered at it in the moonlight. 'There's some lipstick on this.'

'Least there's not lipstick on you. Drink up, Commander.'

We each had our brandy, which was indecently good, and stood listening to the distant music from inside and the crickets harmonizing in the trumpet flowers.

'Thank you,' he said quietly, turning his empty glass in his hands. 'Truly. I never know how to handle people flirting with me—'

'I'd caught that,' I said.

'I put up walls, but some people don't _notice_. They keep chipping away at it, damn them.'

'No! Really?'

He looked up at me. 'Oh, hush. This isn't the evening to get into that.'

I leaned back against the railing, avoiding his eyes by looking up at the stars to see if I could spot the Ink Bottle, or the Broken Heart. Neither seemed to be in attendance tonight, but I did see the Fork in the Road a little way over one of the palace domes.

'Suit yourself,' I said. 'Who do you think'll survive this hand?'

'One hopes that no one will be dying tonight.'

'I meant politically.'

Cullen huffed out a breath. 'Hard to say. This Briala woman's complicating matters, sowing seeds of doubt everywhere you look. Not to mention the letters we've found! Really, it could go either way.' I heard the resonant tap of bottle-glass against crystal, the soft liquid sound of just a touch more brandy. 'I apologize,' he said.

'No, go on, I love hearing people rant about this stuff. It's good book fodder, ask Ruffles! I go pester her to complain at me all the time.'

'No, I...' he cleared his throat a little, and when I glanced at him, he was staring into the bottom of his glass again. 'I mean to apologize, properly. To tell you I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said to you, that day.'

I felt prickling heat creep up my collar, and I had the sudden feeling that my body was operating manually—I had to remember to breathe, turn the blinking mechanism on and off, and I had no idea where to put my hands.

'I've missed our correspondence,' Cullen went on. 'And I've... I've missed _you_. Can you forgive me, Varric?'

Well, I could, obviously. That's all I'd been doing for weeks, forgiving and forgiving, hoping I was doing it loud enough for him to hear over the roar of betrayal.

'Tch, don't worry about it, Curly,' I said, though not quite as flippantly as that sounds on paper. 'Water under the bridge. And I'm...'

He looked so hopeful, like a little beam of light to cut the shadows. Light that reached down into the dark where I kept my secret self, and it could have comforted me, could have held me, in that moment. But I felt a rising panic, instead, invisible hands reaching up from my own heart to choke me. This was too much talk, too much truth with no ink, no conduit between he and I. Bare and scared and honest.

'...going to check on Sparkler,' I finished, pushing off from the railing and setting my glass back with its fellows on the little table. 'He's probably stewed to the eyeballs by now and having a handsy ol' time with that one baronet who keeps arguing with his boyfriend behind the statuary.'

Cullen hesitated for only a second, then said, 'That's probably wise. Last I saw him, he was in the garden with the reflecting pool.'

'Thanks for the tip.' It was like we were reading off a script, from a terrible play called How To Speak Normally When You Want To Kiss But Won't Admit It. 'Good luck with the fanbase, Curly. If you need something to say, go on and on about how fantastic Archie is in bed. He'd enjoy hearing about that, whenever you write him next.'

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, closed it again with a snap, swallowed, then said, 'I'm sure he would.'

And I went off to find Dorian, like the idiot I am.

* * *

'You did _hhhwhat_?'

'I know! I'm a moron!'

'You're _more_ than a moron,' Dorian hissed through his teeth. He was standing there with his weight on one hip and his arms crossed, like he does, his bottle of wine forgotten on the edge of the fountain. 'You're a fucking disgrace! I can't _believe_ this.'

I was sitting on yet another stone bench, with my head in my hands. 'Come on, you're supposed to be my sympathetic friend, here, that's a little harsh.'

'Not nearly harsh enough! Rains of burning sulfur wouldn't even come close to harsh enough. A vat of acid would only be scratching the surface. _He apologized and you didn't apologize back?_ '' Dorian threw up his hands and turned away from me indignantly. 'I really don't know why I bother! I _cajole_ , I _inveigle_ , I put in a wise word from an experienced man of the world and what comes of it? This... this utter bullshit! Maker's balls, Varric, have you ever done the sensible thing in your life?'

'Not that I can remember.' I laughed hollowly. 'Why break the pattern? I've just hit my stride.'

'Oh, don't go feeling sorry for yourself _now_ , you dug your own grave!' Dorian whirled back around, eyes flashing. He drew himself up and looked like he wished he could catch me behind the knees with his staff, but seeing as he didn't have a staff on him at the time (they make you check them at the door), he satisfied the urge by giving me a gentle prod in the shin with the toe of his very shiny dancing shoe.

'Ow-w,' I said, a token protest since it hadn't actually hurt.

'I could do worse,' Dorian warned me. 'I could kick _both_ your shins, and you'd have to stump around on your knees for the rest of the night, and people would set discarded hors d'oeuvres plates on your head, mistaking you for an avant-garde occasional table!'

I let myself smile a little, despite the situation. 'Oh, horror!'

' _Yes_ ,' Dorian said, 'and I'd observe your suffering, and I'd cackle to myself. Hah _ha!'_

'Not much of a cackle,' I pointed out.

'I'm warming up.' He budged me over and sat on the little bench beside me, where there was hardly room. I don't know why Orlesians seem to think that people like to sit on tiny hard bits of garden furniture all alone, but they certainly design the things for lonesome contemplation rather than companionship. Architectural empathy pulling a fast one on me when I least expected it. 'Look,' said Dorian, 'pull yourself together, go back up there, twirl him round, tip him over your outstretched arm and kiss the daylights out of the man, or so help me, I will do it myself!'

'Twirl him round and tip him over my outstretched arm?' I echoed with raised eyebrows.

'Stand on a footstool if you have to! This is hardly the time to preserve what remains of your foolish pride.'

'Oh, _nice_ , a dwarf joke in my time of need.'

Dorian gently bonked his foot against mine, and I kicked him back at about the same level of uselessness.

'I can't believe you told those swooning girls that he's bedding Arch Tarstrive,' said Dorian.

 _'And_ swooning boys,' I reminded him. 'This one guy in a yellow mask was draped all over him like a wet cloak.'

'Oh, him. Name's Benoit, he's on the rebound from a chevalier.'

I made a gesture of disbelief with both hands. 'Do you know shit about _everyone's_ relationships? Andraste's tits, we've been here for five minutes! Next you're going to tell me all about Duke Gaspard's secret affairs with his Antivan pool boy.'

'Patience! I must save _something_ to talk about on the long ride home.'

The bell went off, signaling the necessity of returning to the fray.

'Well, hop it,' said Dorian, shooing at me until I got up. 'I have an assignation to attend to.'

'We're here to be attending to an _assassination_ , Sparkler.'

'Oh, surely it can wait?' Then his expression grew serious. 'But I swear to you, Varric, if you don't march back in there and beg on your knees for Cullen to take you back, I'll toss you down the stairs.'

'You and Nightingale should start a club. "Take me back"?' I huffed. 'He never had me in the first place!'

Dorian gave me a piercing look, just as the second bell started to chime.

'If you believe that, you're beyond help.'

I felt my heart twang uncomfortably. 'Yeah, you're right.'

Dorian clapped me on the back. 'Go to him, you idiot. Maker speed you.'


	7. The Festival, The Rooms, and The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Thank the Maker!' Cullen said on a breath out. 'We can go home, speak plainly and not have to walk on bloody eggshells anymore.'  
> A beat.  
> 'Do you mean in a general "away from the nobility" kind of way or a "you and me personally" kind of way?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of the drinking songs in this chapter are slightly modified from real life, whereas 'the trader from jader' is an original work.

I ran into somebody else first.

'Whoa, Seeker, what's the rush?'

'The Inquisitor needs us to go to the servants' wing,' she muttered urgently, looking glad to get away from the gaudery and start hitting things again. 'Where is Dorian?'

'Assignating,' I said, then frowned, mentally flipping through tenses before giving up. 'He's making out with some lord's second son behind a topiary swan.'

She made a disgusted noise, then shook her head. 'I'll have the Commander send him after us, this cannot wait.'

'Might not be the best idea to put Cullen and Sparkler in the same corner right now,' I warned her, neglecting to say that it would result in them having a good rant about what an asshole I could be sometimes.

'Nonsense. We must hurry—bodies were found!'

'Oh boy,' I said under my breath, 'bodies! _Now_ we're back in the comfort zone.'

* * *

It was a long night. We scandalized a lot of people, the Inquisitor had to make a speech without warning, and it probably took ages to get all that blood out of the tiles.

Ruffles, on the Inquisitorial Guard's behalf, declined the invitation to remain as overnight guests of the Palace, considering what had gone on in the guest wings. We left, some of us in our emergency armor, some still in formal attire, some half-and-half. Five of us were covered in blood—Dorian had met up with us pretty quickly, since no amount of anonymous heavy petting could match the entertainment value of killing Venatori, and Cassandra had tackled Curly to shield him from an airborne Harlequin dagger. Even after everything had wound up at the end, there had been hours of negotiation left to do to secure further support for our cause, signed off and agreed upon down to the last pin. By the time we dragged our carcasses down the curving stair and out of the gates at half-past three in the morning, everyone was tired and tipsy and eager to get the hell away from Halamshiral. Except, oddly, for Ruffles, who was bright with energy, invigorated by having finished the task at hand.

It was decided that we'd get out of town and crash at an inn suited more to our usual standard than our surroundings had been all evening, and let me tell you, the idea of a crunchy bed of straw and a lingering smell of liquor sounded like the best thing in the world. Kicking off our dancing shoes at even the humblest hearth would be a relief.

We picked the wrong place. Even at such an advanced hour, the Dandy Cockle was abuzz with activity, packed with patrons in festive abandon. Leliana informed us, with the air of someone who hadn't even considered running into it, that the ball just happened to have been held on the same night as a local barley festival.

Reader, have you ever been to a small-town Orlesian barley festival round about four in the morning? No? Well, let me tell you something, it's not a time for restful sleep. Various representations of peasantry were singing along to folk songs in heavily-accented Common, stuff like The Ballad of Jean Barleycorn, and Rocky Road to Denerim, which, if you happen to be unfamiliar, involves a certain amount of shouting, tossing your friends in the air, clacking knives together and refrains that go 'whack falal-der-ah', whatever the fuck _that_ means. The air was thick with rustic gaiety, and a certain amount of suspiciously cloying pipe smoke.

'We could find someplace else!' the Inquisitor shouted over the noise of a stirring rendition of In Seleny I Met A Maid, which was being performed with even more graphic verses than I'd heard in the Hanged Man. 'Somewhere farther down the road!'

Nightingale shook her head, shouting back, 'Twenty-three miles!' She held up the numbers with her fingers and did a little walking-legs gesture.

Ruffles had just fought her way back through the revelry from the bar. 'I've spoken to the inns-keep, they have rooms!'

Cassandra frowned and said, with hands cupped to her mouth, 'You put what _where_?'

' _The innkeeper!'_ Ruffles jerked a thumb over her shoulder, mimed the point of a roof and an elbowy movement like sweeping a floor, which collided with a patron with a big, floppy hat and one perky tit out.

'Ooh, hallo!' said the woman, giving our Ambassador the once-over.

Ruffles turned back to us and shrugged.

Those of us who could extricate ourselves from the merriment made our way up the narrow stairs.

The little landing was surprisingly quiet, considering the ruckus downstairs. There were two tiny rooms, each with one tiny bed.

'I'll sleep in the carriage,' said the Inquisitor in a rush. 'Who's with me?'

Seeker and Nightingale got dibs, and they went off to the stable-yard, the Inquisitor looking between the remains of the party (minus Ruffles, who was down in the taproom wearing a floppy hat) before following them. The Herald of fucking Andraste gave us a wink and the parting advice, 'You boys behave,' and left us to fight it out amongst ourselves.

There was a split second of indecision, and as one, Dorian and Cullen and I lunged for the open doors. After some scrabbling around and a bit of cursing, Sparkler had shut and bolted the door of the room he'd snagged, trilling 'Goodni-ight!' from inside.

Cullen and I looked at each other in the dim light of the landing.

'Welp,' I said. 'You want to flip a coin for the bed, or what?'

'I wouldn't want to impose,' he said.

'I'm not saying you'd win the toss.'

'You'd rig the toss.'

'I wouldn't!' I would.

'If you insist upon sharing, we could sleep in shifts.'

'No, come on, it's fine. You nearly got a dagger to the face, you deserve a pillow.'

'I'd hate for you to have to sleep on the floor.'

'Nine nights out of ten I'm sleeping on the _ground_ , Curly. I don't care.'

'I don't know if I could sleep, anyway, despite the exhaustion.'

'So go dive into the after-party with Ruffles.'

They'd just struck up What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor, downstairs, starting with the suggestion to hang him out the porthole by his bollocks.

'Bit too tired for _that_ ,' said Curly.

'You and me both.'

'Could you fall asleep?'

'Doubt it.'

'I suppose the bed is a moot point, then.'

'Agreed. Fully moot. Never encountered a bed mooter than the one in there.'

Curly's mouth wobbled a little. 'Mooter?'

We dissolved into exhausted laughter.

' _Maker_ , it's been a long night,' he said. 'Shall we sit up for a while and talk, then? If either of us starts to nod off, he can get the bed first.'

'Deal.'

We went into the little room and shut the door. That muffled the noise of the festivities a little more, but lyrics were audible even then. The farming communities surrounding Halamshiral really knew how to pull the cork out.

We sat side by side with our backs to the frame of the bed.

'Have you got anything to drink?' said Cullen.

'Wrestling Dorian is thirsty work.' I passed my flask to him.

'Thanks.' He took a gingerly sip (not knowing what it was), which was wise. He coughed.

'Tiny calls it Punishment,' I informed him. 'Strongest thing I could funnel in there without melting the glass.'

'It's... aptly named.' He handed the flask back to me. 'We did good tonight, Varric. Everything's sorted.'

'I wouldn't call it a tidy job, mind you,' I said, remembering the frankly over-the-top level of viscera that had been splashed around the place. 'But at least it's done.'

'Thank the Maker!' Cullen said on a breath out. 'We can go home, speak plainly and not have to walk on bloody eggshells anymore.'

A beat.

'Do you mean in a general "away from the nobility" kind of way or a "you and me personally" kind of way?'

He shrugged. 'Both, I suppose. I _am_ glad we're speaking again.'

I took a swig of Punishment, myself. 'Let loose any good fibs about your torrid affair with Orlais' favorite contraband poet?'

Cullen shifted where he sat. The barley revelers were belting out The Trader From Jader, and it helpfully filled the moment of tension.

_Ohhhhhhhhhhh, that trader from Jader sells leather_   
_From most every manner of beast_   
_She sells nugskin and snoufler and dragon_   
_Off the back of her rickety wagon_   
_And she'll show you, if you share a flagon,_   
_That she has the most beautiful fleece!_   
_Hey dee die, hey deedle-eye-oh, she has the most beautiful fleece!_

'Er,' said Cullen, as the singers paused to drink between verses. 'They mostly left me alone, after you hauled me off to purportedly give me what-for.'

'Ah,' I said.

_Rouuuuuuund the market in every weather_   
_When all other folk just stay insides_   
_She sells perfumes and Antivan oi-ils_   
_And she earns very well for her toi-ils_   
_And for only a handful of royals_   
_You'll see the most supple of hides!_   
_Hey dee die, hey deedle-eye-oh, you'll see the most supple of hides!_

'Glad I could help,' I added.

'I appreciate it,' he said. 'I mean that. I've never been much of a lad for formal functions, and it's a thousand times worse when they start throwing maidens at you.'

'No complaints about Benoit?'

'Who?' said Cullen, taking the flask again.

_Did you know that she also sells feathers?_   
_She's my favorite merchant in town_   
_She sells talon and plumage and quill-oh_   
_And she'll let a chap do as he will, oh_   
_With one hand on a bosomly pillow_   
_And the other tucked into the down!_   
_Hey dee die, hey deedle-eye-oh, the other tucked into the down!_

'The guy in the yellow mask who kept asking to dance with you.'

'Oh! I didn't remember his name, there were so many introductions.' His second taste of Punishment seemed to go down easier; it typically did. Once you got used to it, the soul-scouring feeling of it in the back of your throat was almost as nice as the buzz. 'He may have given me some forlorn looks from across the gallery, but it's hard to tell what someone's feeling when they're wearing a mask.'

'So I've heard.'

'Besides, I don't think he actually wanted to _dance_ with me,' Cullen said, with a touch of humor.

'You may be right.'

It sounded like the fiddlers and drummers were being stood rounds by half the bar, and music was replaced with loud chatter and laughing from below.

'Listen,' he said, 'Varric—'

It sounded like somebody kicked the wall in the room next door, and there was a crash of roughly-hewn furniture, and a mighty thump against the floor.

'Sorry!' came Sparkler's muffled voice. 'Sorry. Cockroach the size of a _dreadnought_ in here.'

We looked at each other, but the moment had passed.

'How about we drag the mattress out on the floor so we can both use a bit of it and hang our legs off?' I said.

Cullen nodded, seeming relieved to not have to finish what he'd felt compelled to say seconds before.

A little while later, with our boots and belts and armor in a pile in the corner, we lay on the floor, looking up at the constellations of water-spots on the ceiling, plaster cracks connecting them into pictures. Despite the smallness of the window—I vaguely remembered they had some kind of tax on them, in this area—plenty of moonlight got in, falling across the floor in a sharp stripe of silver.

Cullen pointed up at the ceiling. 'D'you see the one that looks sort of like an ink bottle?'

'Oh, hey.'

His forearm brushed mine on the way back down. 'Hmm,' he said. 'Well, now you know, I suppose.'

My mind had wandered for a second. 'Know what?'

Cullen breathed out a little laugh. 'You were so curious about the hair on my arms, against all reason.'

I tried not to tense up. 'Oh. Right.'

Dumb thing to have written a poem about, in hindsight.

He stuck his arm up again so we could both see it, a slash of moonlight falling across the middle. 'Well, go on, you can check if you like. It won't bite you.'

I'd wound up so tight that in my surprise, I cracked up. 'Sorry. Not laughing at you.'

'No?'

I shook my head. 'Caught me off guard, is all.'

I assumed he'd let his arm and the subject drop, but he didn't.

'It'll only keep you up wondering, if you don't,' he said. I could hear him smiling.

I didn't know what to do. I felt stupid and giddy and incredibly tired. I reached up and tentatively stroked the backs of my fingers against the faint blond dusting of hair on his arm.

'Huh,' I said.

Cullen was holding perfectly still. He sighed, and said very quietly, 'Yes.'

I swallowed around the lump in my throat that had suddenly shown up.

Then he said, 'Moth-like, you reckon?'

'I don't know, I haven't felt up any moths recently.'

An urgent rhythm of stomping and clapping began in the bar and then died away. It was replaced by a single drum being tapped at a trilling, gaining, galloping speed, and I could hear Ruffles leading a call-and-response sort of war chant in guttural Low Orlesian, thickly rolling the R's. Aside from her, and the drum, it was almost quiet, and at the end of every line the people gathered in the Dandy Cockle's main room replied, in one low and fierce and tuneless voice, _leur sang va nourrir le sol, le sol._

'There's things I wish I could tell you,' I said.

'So tell me.'

'I _can't._ ' I recoiled automatically, taking my hand away. 'Shit, Curly. This is stupid, we should go to sleep.'

'Not tired,' he lied.

We listened to the invocation being sung downstairs, the appeal to the ancient god of the grain, the warning to those who did not abide by the turning of the fields.

Cullen turned on his side on the crackling mattress, one arm under his head, the other tucked to his chest so his elbow wouldn't jab me. 'Tell me a story,' he whispered.


	8. The Boy, The Trials, and The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because this is a story, these things meant precisely what you think they mean. Their meaning is sharp and linear, like a thread pulled taut. But because he was real, the thread pulled until it was broken.

Once there was a sentimental boy from a scheming family, who loved make-believe and wanted to make friends. He pretended so much, and he wanted so badly, that he would tell lies.

He would say that a tiny dragon the size of a mouse had come in through the window and gobbled up the sweets he wasn't supposed to eat. He would say that his brother had done something against the rules, so his brother would have to stay home from his friends' house and play with the boy, instead. He would say that people from out of books had come to the door, asking for him to go with them on very important adventures, and that's why none of his sums had been finished. No one believed such foolish things, of course—nor did they believe him when he said he was terribly lonesome, or when he told his mother he felt poorly, or when he said that his father had told him something that scared him, even though these were not foolish things at all.

He pretended so much, and he wanted so badly, that one day he went out to play and didn't turn back.

He walked and walked, looking up at the clouds. When the day faded, he looked up at the stars. He'd heard it said that if you walked under the sky and gazed at the clouds, you weren't a real person. If he walked far enough and looked hard enough, the boy reasoned, he would disappear into the land where taller people went when they dreamed. If he wasn't real, then the things he wanted and the people he made up in his head would be true, because they'd be the same thing, made of the same imaginary substance.

The moons quit the sky; the sun came, hard and bright as a coin. The city was far behind him, and the ground began to slope, packed dirt and scrubby grasses giving way to stones. He didn't like the heat, or the wind, and he didn't like the rain when the rain came to pummel him and soak his fine shoes and his smart little jacket. But these things were the Trials he had to endure. Stories where great things were achieved always had Trials, didn't they? A character faces sequentially more challenging puzzles and foes, until at last the story is complete.

He walked and walked, looking for something to complete him.

He didn't like the cold, or the wind, and he didn't like the snow when the snow came to chill him and frost his battered shoes and his tattered little jacket. But these things were all part of the myth in which he had to participate, before he could exist where he really belonged. He didn't want to be the hero. He wanted to be the _story_.

One mountain peak gave way to others. Wild dogs howled in the hills. The sun spun round the sky, the moons chasing after.

If you wanted to be a story, you told yourself. He told himself a great many things, until they were real. He told himself he was strong, he told himself he could succeed, he told himself he was not alone. He told himself he could tell himself _anything_ and believe it.

He didn't like the hair falling in his eyes, but that was something he could change. He tied it back with a strip torn from his tunic and walked on.

He didn't like the way the hunger made his ribs poke out, but that was something he could change. He sharpened a stick on a rock, and he fed himself, and walked on.

And he didn't like the pain when the pain came to pummel him and soak his brow and his narrow back, but that was something he could change. He imagined that the pain was a sharp stone, and he took the stone inside and he found a deep pit, a hell for it to live in like in a story he read. He dropped it down into hell, and he kicked dirt over it to cover the mouth of the hole so it couldn't get out. He rose on shaking legs and walked on.

Because this is a story, these things meant precisely what you think they mean. Their meaning is sharp and linear, like a thread pulled taut. But because he was real, the thread pulled until it was broken.

A man on a horse saw the boy, at the edge of a wood. The man was a rich merchant who had never known Want, comfortable and isolated in his finery, and to see a ragged child made him quite sick in his heart. He slowly approached the boy, who was very nearly finished with his last chapter and might become a fiction at any time. And though the boy was faded and gaunt from the wilderness, the merchant knew, by the boy's face, the name of the man who was the boy's father.

He had been on his journey for many months, but within a week of being spotted the boy was back in the city he had left. He was fed off a silver plate and bathed in a gilded bath. His mother took his hair down from the string of sinew that had tied it back, because it made him look like a tatterdemalion, but he put it back up when she wasn't looking, because he was one.

The calluses softened, and his ribs receded a respectful distance. He was to have someone keep him company at all times, lest he disappear again, or finish disappearing. He was always to stay inside, where it was safe, and was told many tales about the terrible things that might happen if he stayed out of doors for too long. He was taught, very slowly, to speak aloud again, though he never lost the rasp of the sharp stone disuse had left in his throat.

The boy grew. He read all the books that lined his bedroom, and they were replaced with more. And in time, the boy was so full of stories that he tried, at last, to tell his own.

But no one believed him, because he was a liar.


	9. The Truth, The Truth, The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'There is no subtext,' Dorian repeated. 'There is only... and I know this wounds you in your allusion-crafting, metaphorical soul,' he took a breath, _'text.'_

'Tell me a story,' Cullen whispered.

'Maybe tomorrow,' I said, 'I'm going to sleep.'

* * *

The morning started right as afternoon rolled in. We ate cold bread and berries in the stable-yard, people crossing back and forth into the inn to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything or been pick-pocketed of what they'd had on them the previous night. We bade the Dandy Cockle farewell; The Inquisitor had a terrible crick in the neck to remember it by, and Ruffles had the gaudy pink feather from Floppy Hat Lady's hat. As the horses were being hitched up to the carriage, and Nightingale could be seen handing off a mysterious parcel to the innkeeper's shrewd-eyed daughter, I sneaked a slip of paper into Curly's pocket.

We hadn't spoken since I'd brushed him off, and to be honest, I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. I probably looked like shit and would be falling out of my saddle within the first ten miles, if the Inquisitor hadn't insisted that I be on the first shift in the landau. I didn't know until I was climbing into my seat that Curly was on first shift, too.

Dorian had noticed the fog of tension between us, and led Cullen in a lively analysis of various people from the ball last night, keeping him distracted for a good quarter of an hour. But nothing can be avoided forever. Dorian had been trying to remember an idea he'd had while getting dressed, and snapped his fingers. 'Got it! Have you got some paper, by chance? I've got a stub of pencil but like a fool, I packed my writing chest on the cart.'

Since I was feigning sleep and Nightingale was up on the driver's box instead of inside, that meant Cullen was the only one to ask. He felt about in his pockets a bit, and produced the requested bit of paper (along with some fluff and a length of string, the native inhabitants of all pockets). Dorian took it, turning it over.

'Oh, hang on! This one's got something on it.' He handed it back.

Cullen glanced at it, assuming it to be a note to himself that he'd forgotten, then frowned, eyes skimming fast as he read.

_There's a phrase I don't say that I'm going to say, and it's this:_   
_It's a phrase that can typically be followed up with a kiss,_   
_It's a phrase that has brought many hearts to entangle and dance;_   
_There's a phrase I don't say, but I'm hoping you'll give it a chance._

_It's made up of three words; individually, they aren't much:_   
_It's made up of three words that are close but they never quite touch;_   
_We've all heard them before and they stand in a line, and they're waiting,_   
_And I recognize for seven lines I have been hesitating._

_I can say it, I promise. I promise I won't flinch away._   
_I can say it, I swear it, I promise that I can be strong._   
_I will say it to you 'til the day that I die: **I am sorry.  
** I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my love, I admit I was wrong._

I'd shut my eyes again for a while, but when I cracked one open, Cullen was looking at me, and wouldn't look away.

The weight of exhaustion was dragging me under, feigned things became real and all emotion became ink, wicking away across the broad, blank page of sleep.

* * *

Sparkler and I rode side by side, a little way behind the cart and the carriage.

'So-o,' he said. 'Did you?'

I'd been looking off into the fallow field beside the road, watching the pale grasses wave as we passed; clearly whomever owned the land would not be feeding the soil with their blood to appease the grain god. 'Did I what, now?' I turned to look at him, and he was bouncing his eyebrows a lot better than he could bounce over a skipping rope.

' _Did_ you?' he repeated.

'Wipe that smug look off your face, Sparkler, it's wasted on me.'

His expression slid into a sarcastic moue, instead. 'I'm starting to suspect that _everything_ I do is wasted on you, Varric. You're a dear friend and very good with a crossbow, but you're thick as a dry porridge from the neck up.'

'Flatterer.'

'I'm serious! How could you possibly _not_ have?'

I made a strangled noise of irritation. 'Not everybody can just shuck off their smalls and say "take me, you big handsome bastard!", all right?'

Dorian gave me an open-mouthed look of disbelief, then laughed at me for a long time.

'Shut up!' I said.

'Oh,' the laughter was dying down into only the occasional burble of mirth. 'Oh, I _am_ sorry. I needed that.' He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief, holding the reins with one hand. 'I wasn't asking if you were knocking staves in the next room, I meant did you _apologize_.'

'Knocking staves, huh.'

'There's a whole _world_ of euphemism I'd be happy to introduce you to,' said Sparkler.

'No thanks.' I sighed. 'And no, I didn't apologize last night.' I told him about what was on the paper from Curly's pocket.

'Well!' he said.

I waited for further commentary, but none came. 'Well, what?'

'I don't think I can help you out with this, is all.'

'Why? Not that you've been a stellar advisor up until now, mind you.'

Dorian made a frustrated noise and gestured with his free hand, fingers swiping outwards from his chin emphatically. 'No, I'm done! I give up! If you won't _open your blasted face_ and _speak mouth-words_ to each other, I've _no_ idea how you're meant to carry on with him romantically.'

'I wasn't planning on _carrying on_ with him,' I huffed. 'You make it sound like how Dollface makes out with her girlfriend in the middle of the hall like nobody can see them. And there's nothing romantic about it,' I added, opening my flask of (terrible) coffee we'd scrounged up at the Dandy Cockle.

'You're the most hopelessly fucking romantic man I know,' Dorian shot back. ' _And_ the most oblivious. Pass me some of that foul muck, would you? It's fascinating, how bad it is. There are about six identifiable textures of grit.'

'I'm not _oblivious_ ,' I said, handing over the coffee. 'I'm a very observant person! I happen to be a semi-competent spymaster. Shit, I _describe_ people for a living—did you think I just made it all up?'

'A bit!'

'Wrong.'

'You can't seriously just... _watch_ people, all of the time?'

I nodded. 'It's kind of part of the job, Sparkler.'

'Prove it.'

'You chew more on the left side than the right, you broke your right wrist at some point before you were about ten years old, you learned how to speak Trade from the servants rather than a tutor or your parents, and you grew a mustache as early as possible to try to look older than you are.'

He scoffed automatically, then after a moment narrowed his eyes at me. 'How old do I look, then?'

'Come on,' I hedged, 'humans all look kinda the same age once they're adults, until they get those big flabby jowls.'

'I shall _never_ get big flabby jowls,' Dorian pointed out. 'I shall be tragically and heroically slain in the bloom of youth. If not, I shall age like a fine wine, or a good staff, improving in timbre down the years and eventually acquiring an impressive epithet.'

I plucked the flask back from him. 'You're thirty. I'm not a hopeless romantic. End of story.'

'And I'm the Queen of Antiva!'

'You're the queen of something, all right.'

'Cheap, Varric. Very cheap.'

'Can't resist a bargain. I'm a dwarf, thrift is in our blood.' We were both smirking a little now. 'All right, since you know everything: If I'm so romantic, how is it that I haven't wooed the flaxen-haired heartthrob yet?'

'You told me once that no one could woo that man,' Dorian pointed out. 'But to answer your question, it's because you keep writing him romantic things instead of _doing_ them.'

'Please, that's just—' I stopped. 'Shit, that makes a lot of sense.'

'What did you think was going to _happen_ _?'_ Sparkler made an expansive gesture, turning his wrist many times in quick succession. 'A long trail of letters like the scattered petals of a rose, leading him on a merry chase into your bed, at which time you'd, what, stop every few seconds to write _yes!_ and _ooh, don't stop!_ on a slate on the nightstand? Maker's sake, why don't you just kiss him?'

'I can't!' I protested.

'Why _not_ , damn it?'

'I just can't, all right!'

He gave me a sly look. 'Too short, are you?'

'Oh, fuck off.'

It started to rain.

'I hate rain,' I said after a few minutes of it, to get the conversation rolling again.

'Me, too,' said Dorian.

'And the cold,' I added.

'Me, too,' he said.

There was a pause.

'But why _can't_ you?' Dorian demanded. 'He's obviously up for it.'

'Oh, obvious, is it? All right, Mr Omniscient—'

'You claim to do all this _observing_ of people, and yet you can't see what's right in front of your face.'

'He likes how I write!' I burst out, then immediately lowered my voice past conversational volume as if to make up for it. Seeker and the Inquisitor were both looking over their shoulders up ahead, frowning curiously at us for a moment before turning their eyes back to the road. 'He likes what I say in poems and letters, and the _character_ I played to see if I could please him, but whenever I actually _talk_ it goes pear-shaped and fucks up and I end up _kicking_ myself afterwards, okay? What is it that I'm supposedly missing, here?'

'I've seen him bite his lip when he looks at you,' said Dorian.

'That doesn't mean anything. Some people do that when they're just... thinking.'

'When he talks about you—when we're playing chess and absolutely _not_ knocking staves, by the way—he gets flustered and does that thing where he runs his fingers through the back of his hair.'

'Easy to accomplish,' I pointed out. 'You could bat your eyelashes at him and he'd change colors. All you have to do is skim within a hundred miles of innuendo, and he blushes like embrium on fire.'

'He says he's made things very plain, by addressing matters directly.'

'Nope.'

'He _says_ ,' Dorian pressed, 'that he's sent you incredibly explicit free verse, detailing various _positions_ by which you might mutually _achieve orgasm_ , you _complete_ moron.'

'Not me,' I said. 'He didn't write them to _me_ , he wrote them to Arch.'

'You were Arch the whole time!'

'Yeah, but he hasn't done it since he found that out, has he!'

Sparkler growled with exasperation, making a sort of claw-fist-claw motion in the air in front of him for a moment before taking a deep breath and proceeding calmly.

'Varric,' he said. 'Bosom friend. Brother-in-arms. Very fine author of predictable trash and generally a goodish sort of chap. Do me a favor before I die of vexation, and listen. Just listen to the words I am speaking right now. There are sounds emerging from my mouth, and they are important. Do try to discern the meaning. Let's imagine there's no such thing as subtext. Let's imagine that if someone says, "The sky's a bit gloomy today, isn't it?" then that means the Avvar Lady of the fuckering Skies is literally in a bit of a glum slump. The key word here is _literally_. In this bright little hypothetical dream, there is no subtext. Understand? Are we following?'

'You don't have to be condescending,' I said.

'Oh, but I do. I care for you as my own flesh and blood—or actually rather more than them because my family can frankly go boil their heads—but sometimes it becomes vital to the continuation of our friendship for me to speak in very small, simple words so that you stop jumping to conclusions and over-complicating the simplest notions that even a child can understand.'

I remembered Spike and her blackberry jam biscuits that you push with your thumb. 'Ah.'

'There is no subtext,' Dorian repeated. 'There is only... and I know this wounds you in your allusion-crafting, metaphorical soul…' he took a breath, ' _text_. Now, absorb that, let that bubble away in the fevered cauldron of your mind for a moment, and tell me: _Why haven't you bloody kissed him yet?_ If you've got to wake up in the morning and tell yourself, "All right, self, today I'm going to let myself pretend to be Arch Tarstrive, on the inside where nobody sees, until I can get the job done and set off the happy ending with a bang," then by all means, do that.'

'I don't—'

He held up a hand, making a little noise to cut me off when I tried to speak further. 'Nuh-uh.'

'Can you j—'

'Hup.'

' _Sparkl_ —'

'Mrp.'

I flipped him off. 'Fine.'

'As I was _saying_ ,' he continued with an elucidative little wristy motion, 'if you have to wear your lucky underpants, I support you. If you have to paint yourself blue and affix faceted gems to yourself with paste, I will acquire the paste on your behalf. Just—' there was that fist-claw-fist again, briefly, 'stop putting both of you through the mangle every time you're in the same room! I'm sexually frustrated just _looking_ at the pair of you.'

'Aren't you always?'

He stuck out his tongue at me. 'Play the wag all you like, but you know I'm right.'

And the fuck of it is, I did know. I'd been so far up myself and my own expectations that I hadn't noticed that Curly actually did want _me._

That didn't mean I knew how to talk about it with the guy in question without fucking it up. I was barely managing to talk about it with Sparkler, after all.

All I could do was _write_. But maybe, just maybe, I could use that.

* * *

This next bit sort of breaks the narrative form I've established in this thing so far, so bear with me. I was told the specifics of this conversation months after the events of the prior section of this memoir, but it makes sense to stick it here because it happened a couple hours prior to the conversation with Sparkler I just laid out. Since I've tweaked the format a couple of times in this installment already, and you didn't throw the book across the room and damn my inconstant and capricious nature, I figure I can get away with it one more time.

So. To business.

Earlier, in the carriage scene, I fell asleep. What follows is what I didn't witness, because of that.

Cullen: Is he asleep? I can't tell.

Dorian: Speaking as someone who's grudgingly snuggled up in a tent with him in the frozen depths of the Emprise—yes.

Cullen: Will you have a look at this?

[He hands the poem to Dorian, who reads it.]

Dorian: Lovely. He says he's going to say it, and yet he _writes_ it!

Cullen: Don't get me wrong, I appreciate that he wrote it. I felt foolish, apologizing and then watching him run off. I mean, I _meant_ what I said, of course, but it felt like...

Dorian: You deserved an apology, too.

Cullen: And here it is.

Dorian: Right.

Cullen: And I appreciate it.

Dorian: But?

Cullen: I can't just say I forgive him out of the blue. He has to say he's sorry, first. I need an in.

Dorian: You may have a point, there. Bringing it up just to say, 'I've forgiven that, by the by!' is a bit off-color.

Cullen: How can I know when I've done the right thing?

Dorian: Did you show him your arm?

Cullen: Last night. It was under the light of the moons and everything.

Dorian: And _nothing_? Not a twinge? Didn't make a move?

Cullen: He did touch it.

Dorian: Progress! I don't know what's so captivating about your arm hairs, but he seems to like them.

Cullen: [a short laugh] I don't get it, either.

Dorian: Well, he's got big wiry ginger ones, thick as a tufted rug. A man's tastes often develop in direct contrast to one's own appearance, you know.

Cullen: Was that the case for you?

Dorian: Me? Oh, _heavens_ , no. That would mean I enjoyed the company of scruffy, vulgar axe-swingers with no sense of personal decorum.

[A lengthy pause.]

Cullen: _Ri-ight_.

Dorian: Did you speak quite softly?

Cullen: As softly as could be heard over the noise, yes.

Dorian: Sorry about the cockroach, as it happens! I hope I didn't shatter your timing.

Cullen: Please don't trouble yourself over it. But yes, I spoke softly.

Dorian: And you shared a drink?

Cullen: He had Punishment in a flask.

Dorian: [in disbelief] And _that_ didn't loosen him up at all? By the Maker, it's worse than I feared.

Cullen: Do you think anything can be done?

Dorian: Short of you pinning him to your desk and undoing his belt, you mean?

Cullen: I don't think I _could_ , if I didn't know he absolutely wanted it.

Dorian: Maybe we can figure out a way for him to express how much he wants you. Present him an opening, as it were.

Cullen: Er.

Dorian: Not that kind.

Cullen: Ah.

Dorian: Unless that suits you both, of course. All sorts of ways to go about it.

Cullen: Right, right.

Dorian: Between the thighs is very popular, back home.

Cullen: I'll bear that in mind.

Dorian: A few drops of oil and you're slippery as a minnow.

Cullen: [clears his throat] Returning to the point—

Dorian: Right, yes. I think what we've got to do is really strongly get it across that you've _already_ been enthusiastically signing off on his raunchier ideas, you know? You _have_ been, haven't you?

Cullen: Some of the stuff I wrote to Arch was very... [in a much smaller voice] _direct_.

Dorian: Detailed?

Cullen: Terribly.

Dorian: Debauched?

Cullen: Suggestive.

Dorian: _Explicit_ _?_

Cullen: [muffled, face in his hands] Yes.

Dorian: I see!

Cullen: I've tried.

Dorian: I know you have, love.

Cullen: Maker, I've tried.

Dorian: There, there.

Cullen: It's hopeless.

Dorian: Oh, stop, nothing's hopeless! He's just got some sort of... I don't know, a mental block about this. We'll muddle through. Have you tried writing him more of the saucy stuff, since you started to patch things up again?

Cullen: I didn't think it would be welcome.

Dorian: Believe me, it would be.

Cullen: You think so?

Dorian: I _know_ so.

Cullen: But writing just leads to more writing. And while I love his letters, cherish them—

Dorian: It's not quite the same thing.

Cullen: Yes.

Dorian: I'll talk to him again.

Cullen: I appreciate your helping me with this, Dorian. I know it's a trial.

Dorian: Nonsense! I _love_ being a bother. Besides, he listens to me. Mostly.

Cullen: Do you...

Dorian: Hm?

Cullen: Do you think I ought to practice saying the sort of things I can, er. Occasionally write down?

Dorian: The saucy stuff.

Cullen: Yes, all right.

Dorian: Couldn't hurt to try.

Cullen: It's not that I don't _want_ to tell him aloud. Sometimes I see him and I feel like I'm about to burst with all the words I wish I could say.

Dorian: I know the feeling.

Cullen: I feel terrible for being so frustrated with him for his own reluctance.

Dorian: You can understand where he's coming from and still be frustrated, Cullen.

Cullen: Perhaps you ought to just lock us in a room together until we sort things out, eh?

Dorian: Last night was certainly an attempt.

Cullen: At least there was some progress.

Dorian: And every little helps. Now, let's get a bit of practice in, shall we? Repeat after me—

Cullen: Maker, you can't ask me to say anything _lewd_ while he's sleeping three feet away!

Dorian: I can, and I am.

Cullen: I'll die.

Dorian: You won't die. Now, repeat after me: 'I want to fuck you.'

Cullen: I— [he swallows] You're wrong, I _am_ dying. I can feel it. I can't breathe properly.

Dorian: Crack the window, get a big gulp of Orlais up your nose and try again. 'I want to fuck you.'

Cullen: Will you stop that!!

Dorian: I'm going to keep saying it until you say it back at me.

Cullen: _What if he wakes up?_

Dorian: Then we lie our arses off. Go on, 'I want to fuck you.'

Cullen: I really don't think I can ever say that to his face, Dorian.

Dorian: Where's that stout Fereldan heart Varric goes on about in his propaganda, eh? Pull yourself together, man!

Cullen: [takes a couple of deep breaths]

Dorian: Or we could try 'I want you to fuck _me_ ,' instead?

[There is no reply.]

Dorian: Aha.

Cullen: I'll _die_. I'll just fall down and die in front of him, and it will all have been for naught.

Dorian: Just keep breathing. Imagine you're writing it down, picture the words taking shape.

Cullen: 'I want...' [more breaths, muffled by his hand] 'I want you...'

Dorian: Take your time, love, you're doing fine.

Cullen: [in a whisper] 'I want you to fuck me.'

Dorian: Brilliant! Oh, well done!

Cullen: You sound as if I'm a puppy who's just jumped through a hoop.

Dorian: In fairness, you are, a bit.

Cullen: Just for that, I'll make sure you get shorted a carriage shift.

Dorian: Also fair.

Cullen: Do you really think I can talk to him like that?

Dorian: With careful instruction, _anyone_ can become a foul-mouthed libertine.

Cullen: And he wouldn't... I don't know, take a swing at me or something?

Dorian: Swing into your arms and have his way with you, more like. He's dying to be with you. Have a little faith.

Cullen: Things just keep going sideways.

Dorian: We'll get you two together somehow.

Cullen: I do hope so.

Dorian: Or I'll be put to death for strangling you both! No pressure.

* * *

We made it back to Skyhold in one piece, and as usual a whole lot of shit had piled up while we were away.

I had a stack of demanding letters from half the Guild and a few debt collectors, who seemed to be competing to see who could get on my last nerve. The newsies (as I'd started calling them in my head) had amassed a thick bundle of material I needed to go over with them, not to mention Snowdrop and Chopper were progressing to actually reading in short bursts, and I wanted to sit down with them and assess how they were getting on; Spike was spending more and more time with Heir, which worried me, and Kipper was spending a lot of time with Tiny, which didn't; Sparky had apparently broken his staff, somehow, and had been spotted whispering excitedly with Dagna, which could mean we'd all be burnt brown crunchy bits by the end of the week.

Milton and Arthur, my precocious librarians, had my office entirely blocked off with stacks of barrier-enclosed books all over the floor with paper labels affixed to the flagstones for each pile, arranged in some sort of system only the two of them understood. The keep had a higher-than-average number of Chantry mothers milling around, all trying to snag various women of the Inquisition to give them piercing looks and humbly request a moment of their time (and that wasn't really a _request_ ); some visiting beaker from the College of Magi was following the Kid around and trying to get him to stand in one of those weird insulated cabinets they use to measure magical fields, and kept asking him to lick a slip of alchemical paper to see what color it turned; the Chargers were off excavating the wreckage of Haven, and Tiny (though he wouldn't admit it if you asked) was worried sick about one of his boys getting stuck under rubble somewhere.

Ruffles was in a furious bidding war for an artifact that Dagna needed for one of those Really Dangerous Experiments with the red lyrium samples we'd brought back from Emprise du Lion; Nightingale had been spending a lot of time down in the dungeon, which was weird; Seeker was up to her hairdo in official Seeker-y stuff. And Curly... summoned me to his office.

I hadn't know what to expect, but Dorian wasn't it. 'Sparkler! What's going on?'

'You two,' said Dorian, as he barred all three of the office doors to keep people out, 'are going to sit down together and have a chat.'

'Excuse me?'

'A supervised chat. Mediated, as it were.'

Cullen was looking out of one of the arrow slits, like he was trying to calculate how flat he'd have to press himself to squeeze through one and escape.

'Uh, right,' I said. 'Here's the thing, though: why?'

'Because you won't talk!'

I crossed my arms. 'We talk plenty.'

'Not about the right things. Now, I know this is hard for everyone involved,' Dorian went on, 'and Maker knows the embarrassment will probably fill the room until it's impossible to think straight, so what I propose is that for this first one we just sit you down and you'll,' he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a steadying breath, 'write at each other.'

Cullen sat down at his desk, as a gesture, _well, here I am, up for the challenge!_

I grabbed the spare chair, spun it around and sat. 'All right, don't strain yourself, Sparkler, we're all adults here. If you think it'll help, I'm game.'

A piece of paper was slapped down between us on the blotter. Dorian opened the lid of the inkstand and gave us each a pen. 'Nothing below the waist, gents, this is introductory sparring.'

Cullen was already blushing, but he picked up his pen, dipped it, and wrote something. He turned the paper around for me to see it.

_Nice to see you, Varric._

I felt stupid, and Dorian leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed and making a big show of not watching our every move wasn't helping, either. But I loaded my pen with ink and replied.

_Afternoon, Curly. This is a bit weird, isn't it?_ I turned the paper back around.

_Partly my fault, I'm afraid. I've been struggling with articulating myself, when we converse._

_Ah, come on, it's not all on you. The conversations have two people in 'em, after all._

_Three people, some of the time. Two of you and one of me._

_Just you and me on this piece of paper, Curly, promise._

He took a few moments longer with his next reply.

_I miss him._

_Shit, what am I supposed to say to that? "Sorry I made up a guy and you liked him?"_

_I don't expect you to apologize for my liking him._

_Well, I kinda do._

_You needn't._

_I do anyway._

_Perhaps you ought to try not doing that._

_Oh, like it's so easy?_

Dorian was watching us flip the paper around back and forth like he was watching a game of badminton.

_It was simple enough to write that poem to apologize to me._

_There's more to apologize for than that, you know as well as I do._

_I don't want you to tie yourself in knots over it, please, Varric._

_I don't know what to say._

_What do you do when you don't know what to say?_

_I make shit up._

_Write me a poem?_

_What, right now? While you're sitting right there **looking** at me?_

_I think that was the point of Dorian's exercise._

_It might take a while._

_I have the time._

_What about the four hundred things you need to do?_

_Accept that I have time for you._

I read back over a few lines, then looked up. He was just regular Curly, waiting patiently for me to believe him.

_I'll do my best._

_That's all I ask._

I closed my eyes, pen still in my hand. I started the poem in my head, watching it begin to unfold. Then I re-dipped my pen and wrote the first stanza.

_If I were a better man I could be honest and love you,_   
_If I were a stronger man I could speak up without fear._   
_If I were a braver man I could just do what I'm feeling;_   
_If I were a wiser man you might already be near._

Not the best opener I'd come up with, but it was a start. I turned it around for Curly to inspect, and he read it and turned it back around, with the understanding that that couldn't possibly be all. We went back and forth like that, some stanzas taking me nearly five minutes to phrase right in my head before I wrote them down.

_(If you were a better man I'd more than likely resent you,_   
_If you were a stronger man then I'd regard you with fear._   
_If you were a braver man I might not feel what I'm feeling;_   
_If you were a wiser man you'd send me far, far from here.)_

Cullen shook his head just a little as he read, and wrote a little note in the margin before he gave it back. _Lies._

Oh, he was going to do commentary? If that's how it was going to be, it seemed in the spirit of the exercise to respond to them.

_I've established I may not be good and I may not be honest—_   
_These are traits in my character everyone hears and observes._   
_I'm a liar, a sharp, and a bounder, and everyone knows it,_   
_And that's far less than someone like you genuinely deserves._

His reply was to simply circle the word _liar_ in the third line, smiling a little. In the offing, Dorian had taken a thick tome out of Cullen's bookcase and was reading where he leaned, balancing the weight of it on the length of his forearm, completely ignoring us.

_You've established you tried to be whole but you ended up broken—_   
_This is something you choose to believe in the face of the odds._   
_When you look in the mirror you see someone robbed of redemption,_   
_Whose fate has been sealed at the mercy of soldiers and gods._

Cullen didn't have anything to say to that, a faint line between his brows. He nodded once, then shook his head, and didn't seem to know which was right.

I needed to be going somewhere with this.

_I propose that we lay all our terrible cards on the table—_   
_Neither of us was dealt the most winning, impeccable hand—_   
_And we play out a round as a test, to determine we're able,_   
_Making bets on our happiness to the extent we can stand,_

_And if betting our fears against fears didn't win any favor,_   
_And we're just as confused and determined to torture ourselves,_   
_I would still think the evening a memory that I would savor,_   
_And would lock it away to look back on when longing compels._

He read it quickly and then slid it back across.

_But if when the night's over we find ourselves several gold lighter_   
_And we look at each other all limned by the glow of the fire,_   
_And we notice the fists of our hearts clench a little bit tighter,_   
_Well, I'd say that's an ideal experience to acquire._

I read over the stanza a few more times than were necessary to be sure it scanned, before I let him see. He emphatically underlined _ideal_ , and circled it for good measure. Then he took up his pen, looking to me to make sure it was all right—I nodded, and he wrote.

_If we were both braver we wouldn't fear being rejected,_   
_And if we were wiser we'd have our doubts under a thumb,_   
_But we are not men who are better than what we expected._   
_There's a limit to how strong a person can ever become._

I felt that tug on the string he had around my heart. _You're strong enough already._

_Then so are you._

I noticed the light had changed a little, and Dorian was watching us again.

'Time?' said Cullen.

'It's been an hour,' Dorian told him. 'That's about enough for your first outing, I think. How did it go?'

Cullen cleaned the nib of his pen and put it away, so that he had something to do with his hands. 'Quite well, I think. How do you feel about it, Varric?'

'I... yeah.' I felt strangely relieved, floaty like after a nice glass of wine, when the harsh edges soften and the world seems more hopeful and full of possibilities. 'Good.'

Dorian closed the borrowed book with a snap. 'Excellent! Same time next week?'

I wished I could just sit across from Cullen for a lifetime, writing and writing until everything between us made sense, but I said, 'Sure thing. You up for that, Curly?'

'More than,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Thank you for being willing to try it.'

'Thanks for giving me the chance to.'

'"And thank you, Dorian,"' said our long-suffering mediator, '"for not throwing us off the battlements long before now." I think that about covers it!' He went about unbarring the doors, which hadn't been knocked on a single time for an hour. That must have been a record—either that, or Dorian had recruited Spike to sit on the walls outside and threaten people with her flippy knife if they tried to interrupt. 'I'll just let you say your farewells and all that, shall I?' He slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Cullen and I looked at each other.

'So,' I said.

'Yes,' he said.

'That didn't feel like it took an hour.'

'It really didn't, you're right.'

'Time just flew by.'

'Indeed, it did.'

We looked at our respective hands.

I rocked on my heels. 'So, uh. Next week, then?'

'I'll be here waiting.'

'You're _always_ here, Curly.'

'Yes,' he said, 'I am, aren't I?'

We looked up at each other again, and both spoke at once, words bashing into each other's.

'Look—'

'I want—'

We both stopped.

'You go first,' said Cullen in a rush.

'Nah, you got two words in, you're ahead of me.'

'I insist.'

I swallowed, trying to reclaim momentum. 'Look, I know I'm a jerk sometimes, and I do stupid shit and I don't know how to act. But that doesn't mean I don't care about you, or... you know, want to do things _right_.'

'Thank you for telling me,' he said.

I reached out, tentatively, and brushed the backs of my fingers against the back of his hand. 'Your turn. What did you want to say?'

'I...' Cullen took a slow breath, closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn't moved his hand away, was still allowing the touch, so I didn't stop it, either.

I waited, more patient than I've ever been in my damned life.

When he spoke, he spoke softly, in a way that made me want to lean closer, to fold myself into his arms and stay there for as long as I was allowed.

'I want _you_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onwards to the third (and lengthiest) installment!


End file.
